Eskildsen

Eskil is the picture of the north, old pagan tradition, and ancestors whose history is built on blood and travel. His skin is pale, in a dusky sort of way, kissed with sunlight from long days spent out in the snow. His face is old world, fine boned but gruff, a firm jaw kissed with blonde stubble, annoyance written across his brow and the constant frown present on pale lips. Freckles spread across the bridge of his nose, fragile and faint in color, framed by square glasses and highlighting the gray-blue of his eyes; exhausted and often smudged with the purple black of bruises born of hours without sleep. His hair is pale blonde and gold, thick and mussed, interwoven with braids and metal clasps, falling in a thick curtain around his neck and often trapped in a messy bun. .

Pragmatic to his core, Eskil is a man one hates to love. His time spent as a veternarian has left him with a detatched sort of absence in regards to his empathy, for there is only so much one can spare when faced with animals who have endured indescribable suffering before you begin to choke on sorrow. He's a man of hard earned means and steady hands, gruff in voice and action, because for all that he has dedicated his life to healing it has come with a misanthropy that has left him with a bitter taste towards human company and a cynicism that bleeds those on the other end of it. If nothing else, for all his sharp edges and weighted gaze, one can trust his professionalism and persistence to see tasks through to their inevitable end.