Name: Echard Morris
The ghost of a man who once cared for appearances beyond circumstance, everything from his hair to the soles of his shoes appeared antiquated and wearied. The tattered long coat he wore was thick and navy blue; riddled with holes and adorned in a faded golden embroidery; torn from service and the sea; worn with its notched collar flipped upwards around his neck; pungent with the odor of cigar smoke and spirits. The plain, unlaced shirt beneath, neatly tucked as it may have been, had long since been robbed of its pristine sparkle and traded for a dusky grey. The waist of his trousers had frayed. His leather boots had cracked and creased under a sailor’s sun.
But despite his tatters, he carried himself with a pride denoted to men of experience. Shoulders back. Spine straight as a mast. His eyes were keen and focused, grey like the sky in a summer squall. The cut of his jaw and the lines on his face, his nose and his cheekbones, were scarred and sharp. He spoke in a commanding, graveled tonality, his voice low and grated, the hint of an amalgamized accent twisting its cadence to sound simultaneously sinister and dangerously refined. The hardened constitution of his brow was without humor or reprieve, wrinkles formed in the nooks of his skin and across the plane of his forehead, unpleasantly stern: rigid by nature. Had one the time to notice, the knuckles on his hands had bulged by consequence of countless unnamed brutalities, barroom brawls and gentleman’s disagreements.
A peculiar attention to order seemed to hint a design more grand, however. He was never caught askew or without wit under any circumstance he could control. His clothes were tucked and arranged with determination. The beard he wore, although rugged, was trimmed with a certain degree of purpose. Chestnut, shoulder length hair hung untied and parted from the left, well kempt regardless. His frame was lean and athletic, molded by persistence and a lifetime astride decks. Just a shade taller than average, he could perhaps seem imposing when adorned as he was, standing hands in his pockets as he scrutinized strangers for the yield of their purse, or the value of their hide. In that, his mind seemed to be solely preoccupied.
Born to an Estvale working girl and abandoned before he could ever remember the name or the image of his mother, Echard lived most of his life precariously balanced upon the precipice of oblivion. He survived his early childhood in credit to the kindness of strangers who had been immeasurably hospitable in those dangerously formative days, and was adopted in his adolescence by a group of scoundrels that would later come to be known as the crew of The Dauntless, a mercenary brigantine that acted as their home for the better part of two decades. Vacated now from the life he once knew, Echard is seeking opportunities that might legitimize his particular brand of talents, and his otherwise unscrupulous disposition.