Tomas Arbel
Noble, custom legendary ruler
Tomas Arbel
Species
Human
Appearance
A tall, weathered man with the hands of a carpenter and the posture of someone who has spent too long being watched. He moves quietly for his height, placing each foot as if testing floorboards for rot. His face is narrow and practical, with deep lines beside the mouth and a small patch of silver stubble that he shaves unevenly. He smells faintly of cedar oil, wool, and rain. The unexpected contradiction is that his formal bearing is undermined by his habit of tucking one trouser leg into a boot when anxious, leaving him looking briefly like a farm laborer in the middle of a royal audience. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice the pause before he speaks: he draws breath through his nose, touches the wooden bead at his throat, and only then answers.
“Low, measured, and unhurried. His rural vowels have been polished by decades of court life, but they return whenever he is tired or angry.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
A carved wooden bead at his throat that he touches before difficult answers.
A copper circlet engraved with village names instead of gemstones.
A faint crescent of sawdust-colored birthmarks across his left wrist, resembling tiny leaf scars but entirely smooth.
He tucks one trouser leg into his boot when anxious.
His silence before speaking is deliberate and noticeable, accompanied by a quiet nasal breath.
Voice
“A low baritone with a dry rasp, like a file drawn across green wood. He can make a crowded hall fall silent without raising his volume.”
Clothing
A dark green wool coat reinforced with hidden leather panels, a plain cream shirt, mud-brown riding boots, and a narrow copper circlet engraved with the names of the first twelve villages that swore to Lassten. He wears no jeweled mantle. His only ornament is a wooden bead carved from the first tree he planted as king.
Body Language
He keeps his shoulders square and his hands visible in public. When angered, he becomes very still, presses his thumb against his wooden throat bead, and begins arranging nearby objects into straight lines. In private, fatigue makes him lean against doorframes and rub his knees like an old laborer.
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