Post by Storyteller on Jan 23, 2016 15:18:23 GMT
Out of the Holy Land came Alfonso de Valencia, the Spaniard, black-haired, Sunken-eyed, sword in hand, a Templar, a Reaver, a Slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the piled bodies of the Kine and Kindred alike beneath his armored feet.
Young he may be, the darkness that rides within him is anything but. Death itself rests within his scabbard, and he relishes every chance to let it sing a ballad of Blood and Pain. Bound only by his word, Alfonso is akin to the spawn of the pit when permitted to indulge himself. Yet, despite his bestial nature he carries a certain noble grace and displays a rather scholarly mien when the situation requires it.
Young he may be, the darkness that rides within him is anything but. Death itself rests within his scabbard, and he relishes every chance to let it sing a ballad of Blood and Pain. Bound only by his word, Alfonso is akin to the spawn of the pit when permitted to indulge himself. Yet, despite his bestial nature he carries a certain noble grace and displays a rather scholarly mien when the situation requires it.