"Wolf," the man spoke calmly.

[*Psionic-Entity]

Name: Elrik Fenswarden
Profession: "Ranger"
Diety: Heironeous
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 215 lbs.
Build: Athletic and tough, not bulky.
Skin: Tanned, slightly roughened
Eyes: Steel blue, almost always sharp and glinting
Hair: Brown, but sunbleached to a blondish hue.
Facial Hair: Generally shaven, though occasionally a few days of growth.
Voice: Deep and slightly rough, with a good deal of variation.

---

The man coughed, doubling over, almost, as he walked between the gates with a slow, powerful stride. The slight raising of his cowl by the lofting of a brow was enough to dispel any attempts at aiding the man, the cold, sharp look showing vitality that was quite masked by the apparent illness. Tugging his cloak around him, the figure continued on his way, the quick pace of his strides and the quick wit with which he pushed and slipped past the crowd failing to stand out, despite the intrusive behavior. Making his way to the nearest Inn, he pushed inside, equally unremarkable in itself, before finding a table near the back and slipping in to a far seat, where he'd have a good view of the room. He motioned over a nearby tavern wench, a bare finger siding out of his robe to beckon the girl over to his side, before ordering a drink.

"Name's Elrik Fenswarden, Ranger... I'll take an ale."

The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, and yet again, the cold steel of the symbol on his skin reminded him of his manners, just before a silver coin appeared in a friendly palm, face up towards the woman.

"Keep the change, I won't be needing it, tonight."

The fellow sighed softly, watching the girl leave, and wondering to himself why she was foolish enough to keep the coin there, dangling between her fingers, a glinting sign to any cutpurses of an easy target. He made a note to watch that one, and those who noticed the little sliver of light, now twisting between her fingers. Leaning back, he fingered the few straps securing the top of his traveling pack, now seated beside him. Out of boredom or habit, he rummaged through the top, a finger pushing at the fresh set of clothes inside, at the bits of adventuring equipment, and at his only book, leather-bound and worn. He tugged on the book, a bit, the binding close to breaking, and covered in a bit of spill from the last time he'd tried to mend it. He pulled the book up with a frown, his eyes catching something, which made him pause and drop the book back in to the back, his trained hand, slipping the bag shut as heis eyes roamed the crowd. Finally, he picked her out again, the same girl, standing awkwardly as she handed down a mug the size of her head. The fellow in the dark brown jacket, and with a scarf up high, his hat pulled low so only the crook of his nose was visible, and the jutting point of his chin. How he'd noticed the man's glance was beyond him, but now he had time to judge the direction of that nose, the subtle tilt of the head as it regarded the girl's pocket, and the hand tracing along the right hip, just where a dagger might be kept. An amateur, but one who'd definitely seen a professional at work, maybe even trained under one. Bad news, but also satisfying, to some extent, since it meant he'd have work, tonight. His diety would be pleased with his efforts, of course.

The rest of the night passed with a good deal of tension. He finished two mugs of ale, some beef and potatoes, and then a slice of some mediocre pie, of some berry whose name he couldn't care to recall. Halfway through his second slice, he noticed a movement, as the girl ended her shift and went out the back way, her movements followed by the shady man, who made for the exit. As soon as he wouldn't be obvious, he rose, shouldering his pack and tugging his cloak around himself with one motion as he made towards the door, treading lightly to offset his haste and pushiness. As he passed through the door he glanced around immediately, lowering his head to avoid the gaze of the dark man, who had looked back over his shoulder. Having avoided this potential mishap, it was time to get to business, and he took care to fix his clothing, and his weapon, before turning to follow the man at a safe distance, treading lightly again, but not so much as to give himself away, should he be spotted.

Surely enough, after a good moment of stressful tailing, he saw the same girl, as she was heading out the back of the Inn, in her streetclothes, most likely preparing to return to wherever she called home. His target, of course, approached her, drawing a knife and holding it to her throat before she could even move, his left hand drawing a second dagger and pressing it against her abdomen. The figure didn't hear the words that were spoken, but by the time he heard the scream and saw the man draw back his hand, he was within a few feet, having leapt from his hiding place as soon as the man's arm had moved, in anticipation of the thrust. A split second was all it took to grip both wrists, the rough calloused palms of the figure's hand easily stopping the weaker man's attempt, but only for a few seconds, before the knee struck to the tailbone, shattering it before the man was flung to the side, landing injured, but stable, with his back impressed in a pile of trash.

It was, of course, not nearly over, and our figure tossed aside his cloak, finally, reavealing a tough, utilitarian breastplate, strapped to his muscular frame overtop of a white cotton garment. His sleeves were rolled up, making the rough forearms visible as they drew forth an ornate longsword, from the soft wood tones of the sheathe at his hip. His eyes blue eyes glared down at the criminal, attempting to scare him away before blood would be shed. Regardless of his warning, the thug got back up, brandishing his daggers and spitting blood as he adopted a typical fighting stance. The girl, who had stood silently as the thief was thrown off her, was now screaming, and pressing herself back in to a locked doorway. It was the previously cloaked figure to swing first, his sun-bleached hair trailing back as he rushed in to combat, striking one dagger at the hilt with the reach on his sword, before adopting a defensive attack against the other, having momentarily stunned the thug's hand.

The fight was quick and dirty, the well-forged sword shattering a dagger before digging deep in to the criminal's arm and leg, downing him almost immediately. The figure then stepped over him, and without a second thought, drove the blade straight down in to the man's heart, killing him instantly and driving the point deep between two cobblestones, almost hilting it in the bloody mess. Finally, he turned, a blood streaked hand resting on the pommel of the weapon as the blue glint of his gaze fell upon the girl, who was now whimpering quietly.

"Are you alright?"

She didn't reply at first, but the pressing insistence of those eyes had her speaking after a few seconds. The fear was still there, and this was satisfying. It meant she'd be careful, in the future.

"Y... yes, thank you..."

A wry smirk crept across his features, as he fetched his cloak and ripped his blade from the ground, wiping it carefully before returning it to his side. As he wrapped the cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood back over his hair, he let out a soft sigh and turned back to the girl.

"Next time, remind me to tip you a copper."

With that, the figure walked down the alley, wrapped in his own cloak of silence.

[*Psionic-Entity]

Elrik stood at attention, the cold look on his face betraying nothing of the swelling pride he felt within his breast, the white cotton uniform draped over his form, quite complimentary, if his word was to be taken. The breastplate tugged firmly at the muscles of his chest, and the heaviness of the plates on his arms and legs reminded him his symbol, so proudly worn on the outside of his armor, dangling from an ornate chain that was attached behind his neck. His hair was brown, at this point, much darker than the soft pale tones of his skin, which framed the ever-present sparkle in his eyes, blue as the sky reflected in a lake on a summer's afternoon. He was young, full of vibrant life, and ready to take on the world in the name of justice and goodness. The ceremony passed with little issue, he was awarded a longsword, bearing the symbol of his faith, as well as his creed in book form, long and boring, but necessary, in his opinion.

Paladin. The word would still ring is mind, even after he'd gone home, removed his uniform and bathed, and even as he lay down to sleep, that evening. This was his calling, and he knew it. Blessed by his god, picked as one of the few from among the many, and ready to attend his first day of training on the morrow, he slept soundly, not suspecting that his world would be turned upside down before it had even started. The attack came that night, and the first he heard of it was screams from the hallway. Keeping a level head, he bolted his door and got in to his armor as fast as he could, strapping his cloak on his back and shouldering his light travel pack, finally strapping his sword to his side before turning to the bolted door, which had not been touched. Unbolting it softly, he crept from the room, moving down the hallway in his soft boots, trying to stay as quiet as he could, despite his armor. He noticed the orc from the end of the hall, its axe raised above a fallen woman, ready to cut her, most likely. With that, he slid forward and let out a yell, his sword slamming in to the creature's back as he channeled his first smiting, the power flowing through his arms and helping him sever his opponent's spine, ending the fight before it even began. He gasped, shoving the body aside and helping the lady up, pushing her back in to the room and shutting the door without a word, telling her to keep hidden. He would later recognize the lady as being the mother of one of the acolytes at the temple.

By the time he got outside, after killing two more orcs, the temple grounds were burning, survivors had nothing left but to run, and bodies littered the grounds. There was a plume of smoke from the temple, a sure sign that the battle was lost. After a moment surveying, Elrik finally decided to turn to the gate, slipping down a less trodden path between some buildings to make his way under the cover of darkness. A bad start to his carreer as a paladin, without a doubt.