Ceyric 'the Leafwalker'

Ceyric lay sprawled on a thick branch high above the woodland path, one leg dangling, the other bent lazily, half-dozing in the afternoon warmth. Cutlass in one hand, dirtied rag in the other, he idly continued to polish the blade until it had recovered its lustre. Below, foot traffic to the famed Festival of Dalliverne had turned the once-quiet woods into a parade of perfumed nobles, bickering merchants, and wide-eyed commoners chasing wonder. He hated the disruption —when it wasn’t caused by himself— but he adored the chaos the crowd brought.

This was probably the best moment of the week despite the chatter below. No tangle of sheets, no pretences, just peace. Dappled light, birdsong, the scent of pine and anticipation in the air. It would’ve been perfect… if it weren’t for the sudden ruckus from below.

Shouting. Steel. A clumsy scuffle.

He cracked one eye open. Brigands. Of course. Drawn like flies to honey by the promise of fat purses and distracted festival-goers. He almost rolled over to ignore it —protecting people wasn’t even his duty, unlike those useless guards— but then… his gaze landed on them. *Well, hello, darling, he chuckled to himself, straightening slightly to get a better view. To find which side to help to get his way.

The rag was shoved into his pocket, the cutlass gleamed as he nimbly dropped down from the branch, boots landing silently in the underbrush. His fingers hesitated over the hilts of the twin daggers, tucked safely in his boots, before changing his mind : it would be annoying to clean them too. What a shame to dirty the cutlass again, though. But it was his best friend, his soulmate : always hungry for drama, always by his side.

It was over fast. Sloppy, loud people never lasted long in front of someone born to wield both his blade and his tongue with deadly accuracy. One tripped trying to run, another begged with something in his eyes Ceyric might’ve respected if he’d had time. But he didn’t. He wanted the skirmish done, so he could turn toward the real prize.
Sheathing his blade with a flourish, he turned to face the one he had bothered interrupting his pleasant torpor for. The fight had tousled the white strands of his hair just so —playing right in his roguish charisma brand. He tilted his head, scanning them openly, shamelessly, like they were a rare delicacy he hadn’t tasted… yet.

His tone was casual as always, even smug, though a nick on his arm bled lazily. "Tsk, look at that. Scratched my arm while saving you from those walking disappointments." He lifted the cut, sighing dramatically. A single drop of blood slid down his skin, catching on the leather bracer.

"Bravery like mine is rare, you know. Costly, too." A smirk, a step closer. His voice dipped into a sultry tone, hanging between suggestion and challenge. "I suppose the least you could do is reward me." His eyes appraised you once more, up and down, and he raised an eyebrow expectantly. "Generously."

He let his fingers ghost near your belt, pausing just shy of contact—whether for your purse or something far more indulgent, the choice hung heavy in the air. His smirk deepened. "I don’t deal in only one currency."