First Impressions

[secretoracle]

Please post your descriptions and any impressions that someone would get from you at the first meeting.

[cassbackward]

Sophia Bourne (alias Sofia Di Ravenna)

The raven-wing hair, the sultry dark eyes, and the bearing and elocution of an aristocrat--if Sophia had shown up in her city finery, the captain of the guard might have taken her kindly by the elbow and directed her to the nearest parlor for tea while the menfolk talked business.  That's probably why she shows up wearing her sturdy, battered gear, the dark and muddled colors of which would allow her to disappear in a back alley or roadside ditch.  Her costume has seen some genuine wear, but it's all mended, clean, and sweet-smelling.  Her boots and belt buckle and wool cloak look too new, as if she is, to some extent, playing dress up in her mannish accoutrements.

And yet, despite her youth--she can't be much older than twenty--and affectations, she has an incisive, confident manner.  She's used to being obeyed and acutely conscious of both her position and her duty.

[Mr. President]

Standing quietly aside from the others is a dark-haired man in rough home-spun dyed in subtle greens and browns and boots with quiet soles. He's of middling height with a build on the slight side of average. His dark eyes don't reflect much in the way of personality, though the lines in his tanned face show he's a man who's used to smiling. For now, he's every inch a professional. He wears a servicable shortsword and a long hunting dagger, his bow left in his room with his pack and the rest of his gear.

[Disintegration]

Matthias Elgwin

Were it not for the outlandish manner of dress and his quietly haughty carriage, Dr. Elgwin would blend perfectly into any crowd of workmen or technicians. The leathery skin of his high, widows peaked forehead is indented by the thick, rubberized strap of a pair of bulky smoked glass goggles that would practically swallow the upper half of his face if they were being worn properly. In a manner more common to military men than academics, his blonde hair is shorn down almost to stubble - a mere half inch or so remaining - and shows that his scalp is much accustomed to the treatment, as it's just as deeply tanned and abused as the rest of him. Rabid fervor gleams from the shadowed overhang of his preternaturally sunken eyes, belying the grim set of his jaw and the thin line of his lips, just above the acquiline hook of a crooked nose that's been broken and set poorly sometime in the past. It's fairly obvious he doesn't shave very often, though he isn't cultivating the unruly beard that's begun to sprout.

Stained, scuffed, and scorched, the coat that covers him from the bottom of his jaw to his ankles looks like it's been dragged through a tarpit, cleaned off, then thrown into some kind of industrial press, dragged behind a carriage, and worse. Amazingly, the material is still whole and hale, despite the depredations. Beneath, the trousers he wears are simple leather and much cleaner, as is the gentleman's linen shirt and pocketed tool vest that lays over it. Two belts criss-cross his hips, gunslinger fashion, though the only hint of their cargo is the occasional glimpse of a plain and utilitarian grip for some sort of short blade at his left side.

[OmegaUltrapower]

By his formal attire the major is clearly recognizable as an officer of
the Royal Army.  To anyone familiar with the highlights of political news
near the close of the Great War, his resemblance to Ret. Gen. Maro is
unmistakable.  The major has let his light brown hair grow out a little from
his military days in an effort to conceal by relative proportion the
creeping gray areas on the sides, though his lack of wrinkles suggests he
cannot be much older than thirty-five.

His uniform seems a bit neatly pressed, given that he surely arrived earlier
today (as everyone else did).  He (when he suspects no one is looking) is
fidgeting with his shirt near the belt buckle, is tugging at his collar, and
is glancing at the inevitable scuffs on his shoes which stand out all the
more against the obvious evidence of very recent repolishing.  Seeing
everyone else's comfortable clothing, including the minister's, he rolls his
eyes in embarrassment.

[Mortarion]

You see a man that, at first glance, would never seem to be a scientist, let alone one of the world's foremost authorities on anything other than how to dress flamboyantly. His clothes are brightly coloured, favouring reds and greens, with a dull brown bowler hat upon his head somewhat balanncing out the outrageous colours. His fingers glint from the sparkle of many rings, rubies and emeralds seem to be prevalent, and his right hand rests on a polished wooded cane, topped with a strange jewel that seems to change colour with every passing second. His face is young, and very handsome, and he always seems to be wearing a charming smile that compliments his flashing blue eyes.

[Nashira Tremont]

A tall, unkempt willowy bookworm of a woman, Alighan appears to only have recently become able to clam that she is indeed a woman. Barely 18 by her looks, and wearing patched and threadbare clothing, the sharp blue eyes of this woman defy her meager beginnings. Brushing back softly curling chestnut brown hair from her shoulders or eyes, the 5'8", almost too thin figure is as likely to be found studying a bit of Synergy as reading a book or making notes in a notebook.

She wears simple baggy linnen slacks of a dingy,threadbare  greyish brown and a used-to-be-white blouse with no adornments. Her shoes are worn black leather.  In cooloer weather she can be found with a baggy overcoat that should fall to her ankles, were she shorter, but comes to about mid-calf, the sleeves, also fall short of her wrists.

Personality:
Quiet, shy, studious and thoughtful, Alighan is often considered slow due to her thoughtful pauses before replying to a question. This assumption is quickly abolished when, as she usually does, she replies with clear concise and well thought out facts and thoughts on the subject at hand.