Oh, c'est pas juste gentil. Serigan a dit de donner à l'ancien guérisseur un sourire flirt alors qu'elle regardait pour démêler sa blessure. La douleur était mauvaise, mais il avait l'habitude."Or, Ol'Cuttah n'est pas juste en train de crier" il a été coupé par la présence soudaine du baume qu'elle avait utilisé pour nettoyer les blessures. Elle l'avait prévenu que ça ferait mal. Honnêtement, il n'y avait rien pensé. Se faire guérir fait toujours du mal. C'était comme se battre, tu devais souvent souffrir un peu pour obtenir ce que tu voulais. Elle a vraiment sous-estimé la douleur. Serigan a volé dans une piqûre de malédictions si profanes que s'il y avait un accord de prêtre rival dans les oreilles chacun d'entre eux aurait été offensé à son tour. Les mots qui venaient de la bouche de Serigan deviendraient la nouvelle norme pour exactement ce que les enfants ne devraient jamais dire en présence d'une compagnie polie. Beaucoup de malédictions que la plupart des gens considérés comme naufragés ont été effacées comme quelque chose de stupide et leurs fentes ont été prises par les incantations virtuoses maudites proférées par l'ancien chef de gang. "...les dieux ont un visage plein d'éclaboussures de centaure! Doncha sait qu'ils ont supposé donner un verre à un homme pour qu'on leur donne une douleur pour qu'ils crient leur nom?" comme il a fini la femme lui a remis un flacon de whisky et il lui a donné un sourire avec des yeux brillants de douleur, "As'plus comme cela." il a égoutté la fiole dans quelques goupilles rapides, espérant accélérer le processus de analgésique que la boisson fine lui donnerait bientôt.
Serigan est revenu à sourire tandis que le guérisseur plus âgé l'a recousu. "Vous avez des compétences, Ol'Killie. Qui'k'cher 'ands 'yare. Est-ce que tu t'es tourné vers le mal?" Il demanda à arroser encore plus ses paroles de la boisson forte. Aussi, trouver la femme plus âgée tout à fait la dame d'accueil en général. Bien sûr, Serigan a trouvé la plupart des gens plutôt aller chercher, mais en ce moment elle le cousait et a toute son attention. Il caresse le pauvre chien blessé par sa chaise pendant qu'il travaille, murmurant quelques condoléances au chien. Ils étaient impossibles à comprendre par les gens et encore moins par un animal. Il a souhaité au chien bien comme il a été emporté loin de lui, ses mots le genre de chose qu'un cryptologue aurait brouillé pour décoder.
Bientôt, Serigan s'est retrouvé dans la salle principale de la Guilde avec une béquille dans une main et sa canne dans l'autre. Il avait au moins une chaise pour s'asseoir et c'était près de la jolie dame qui l'avait payé. Ah, il a aimé quand les gens qui t'ont donné de l'argent étaient gentils à regarder. Il a tapé sa canne sur le sol dans une mauvaise imitation d'un rythme qu'il avait entendu dans une chanson il y a quelque temps. Son esprit agité essayait désespérément de comprendre pourquoi les gens étaient si tristes. Il pensait que ça avait quelque chose à voir avec le chien blessé et l'homme qui était avec lui. Il pensait qu'il se souvenait d'être aveugle. Attends, est-ce que ce groupe est mort? Oui, ils l'ont fait. C'est ce que les gens qui sont venus tout à l'heure avaient dit. Puis Athéna s'était enfuie pour aller voir Arès, l'homme effrayant était descendu des marches. C'était la première fois que Serigan l'avait vu. Il avait salué l'homme avec sa canne et lui avait fait part de ses condoléances, mais l'homme était parti aussi vite qu'il était arrivé. Serigan se pencha la tête en arrière dans la chaise et soupira. Ça allait être très ennuyeux. Il ne devrait probablement pas penser à la façon dont les choses pourraient être ennuyeux quand il semblait y avoir une aura de deuil autour de tout l'endroit et tous les gens dedans, mais, il ne pouvait pas s'en empêcher. Il détestait s'ennuyer. Être ennuyé était à peu près aussi mauvais que la mort vraiment. Il avait plein de gens autour de lui meurent, en enfer, à peu près tous jusqu'à présent. Il s'était habitué à la mort il y a longtemps.
Quand Athéna revint, il lui fit un salut avec sa canne et son sourire: "Désolé de tous les bissus, m'amour. C'est un triste jour. M'eart est très cher. Tel'oo quoi. Ol'Cuttah sait que vous avez besoin d'un voyou." Serigan lui ouvrit les bras pour une étreinte. Mais tu m'auras. Ol'Cuttah ne peut pas marcher. Les ordres du docteur."
Name: Serigan "Cutter"
Appearance: 
Life in the choking streets of Ullarn is a hard one and it makes all men hard, or dead. Serigan has the look of a man who has perhaps done and seen a few too many things. His dark blue eyes seem to just kind of stare into the distance when not focused on a single task. Little to no access to a proper barber, aside from the one 'snipper' you might have in your gang, gives Serigan's long-ish brown hair an unkempt mane-like quality that he deals with simply pushing it as far back as he can each morning and hoping for the best. His facial hair follows a similar philosophy to that of his hair. It is cut into a manageable shape but not as well groomed as it should be. He has a short beard that wraps the entire lower half of the thug's face in an, almost, ruggedly handsome fur. A small scar about and inch long rests on his left check leaving a thin strip of beard missing. His lips are marked by a number of small scars from where they have been busted and his nose is ever so slightly crooked, suffering the same fate as his lips. The thug's body is a much more impressive thing than the poorly kept head that sits atop it. He has massively broad shoulders set with the hard muscle of one accustomed to swinging heavy objects into other men's heads. His legs and arms are long and lithe, a body almost made for 'busting'. The thick, scarred, and vice-like hands that sit on the ends of long arms tell their own story of back alley brawls and one too many men strangled. Serigan covers his body with style only a bombastic gang leader can. He wears a number of layers of fine clothes that have been treated poorly. Each article of clothing speaks a tale of a man with enough money for nice clothing but not enough refinement to know what to do with them. The whole ensemble is covered by a thick, once white, fur lined and collar buff-coat. This is belted at the waist with a rugged sword belt slung with a couple daggers, a coin purse, and a set of dussack & buckler.



Age: 30
Height: 6'4"
Build: Hard lithe muscle set into the massive frame of a street thug.
Weapon of choice: Dussack & buckler
Amount of Yule currently in possession: 40
Current items in possession:
Dussack (Functions as a basic sword), buckler (small hand held shield designed for close fighting and good for little else), Three daggers (One to see, one to find, one to keep), a basic traveling pack (Tent, water skin, flint & Steel, 30' of hemp rope, bed roll), Swagger-stick (Thick wooden cane set with a heavy brass covered iron head), Buff-coat (His coat is a thick padded piece of armor that is made to still look street-stylish. It provides light armor for his torso, legs, and arms)
Basic Skills: 
- Back Alley Fighting: Skilled at quick and dirty brawling the soot stained streets of Ullarn. Fighting with sword & shield, daggers, clubs, canes, and his bare hands but with little training and no experience with more impressive and rich weapons. What he lacks in training though he makes up for in practical knowledge. Wise to cheap tricks and wise enough to use them with deadly effectiveness.
- Shot-Caller: Serigan has an air of command and authority that he seems to carry with him everywhere he goes, even when unwarranted. This makes him a natural leader of gutter-scum who respect strength and cunning and intimidating to those not used to dealing with people not ready for the aggressive nature of the thug.
- Hard Knock Alma Mater: You don't crawl out of the sess pit of Ullarn alive without learning some things. Serigan might not have ever been to a school in his life but he knows how to spot an ambush by the nervous shuffles of impatient thugs. He can figure out the best way to bust into a shop with minimal effort and spot fake coins with ease. He couldn't tell you who painted what or what it means but he could point you to a good fence to sell it after you stole it if you wanted.
Personality:
Most people who grow up in the slums and factories of Ullarn are whipped dogs. They just mope from place to place and hope they get fed. Serigan is a different breed entirely. He saw what he wanted and he took it. With cunning, money, or force he took it. Serigan is the pinnacle of a man with more ambition than sense. Using his force of personality and size got him everything he wanted and this is still is go to method. Serigan often comes across as a bully or even cruel, yet, this is just the most effective tool he has always had. When intimidation fails he often becomes a much more amiable fellow. Serigan is and has always been one quick to laugh and find most jokes a riot. He clings to this sense of humor and a jovial nature with a death grip and this often gets him into trouble when his humor is inappropriate. The most valuable thing to the former gang leader is respect. He can tolerate nearly anything as long as the proper respect is paid. This goes both ways for Serigan. He was not the top of the food chain, even when he had his own crew behind him. He always knew there was a higher seat. Knew when to shut his mouth and where the kick backs were supposed to go. Violating this code of respect though reveals the merciless killer that all too often was seen on the streets. Disrespect is not tolerated and is repaid in blood. Maybe not just then, but, eventually everyone gets theirs. The wheel keeps turnin'.
Occupation before joining the guild: Gang Leader
Basic origin story:
Born to a bordering on meaningless family of factory workers just like every other person in Ullarn, Serigan, was just the fourth child in a long line of doomed kids. In the city there were only two choices for people like them; you get to be a slave in a factory; you get to be a slave to some gang leader. Neither of these options appealed to the rather large boy though. He figured that he had five brothers and they were all reasonably tough. Why not be their own gang? If you don't want to be splashed by piss on t'street bes'be t'one throwin', eh? They set their minds to seizing the territory around their home. Luckily, the gang that owned the little scrap of the city was a weak one. After recruiting all the cousins he could, the boys began their grand plan. they ran little scams here and there. They mugged who they could and stock piled the money they could. The boys were smart enough to throw the kick backs to the local gang without a single word of protest. That was, until they protested with everything they had. They stormed the hide out of the crew and fell on them in the way that only young men filled with fury and terror can. The place was ruined with blood and guts and standing soaked to his elbows in dark red stood the boy who had prompted all the others to take their fate into their hands, Serigan. He was fifteen years old.
The years that followed were hard and bloody. The boys turned into hard men and many of them turned into dead men. By the time Serigan was twenty five years old his gang was one of the most hated by the city authorities and power among the streets. He was privy to the meetings of many crime bosses and did what he could to gain their favor. He was just a small fish to these men of global power. they did not concern themselves with the pointless struggles of little gangs in the soot stained land they came from. Serigan, now Cuttah to his ilk, was not satisfied with this dynamic though. These powerful men should care what happens on the streets that raised them. They should the people like the gangs did. They should protect them, not just collect their black and gray market profits and run off to whatever nice city they actually lived in. He started a new plan. this plan was to be his last though. In the four years it took him to implement it his gang became far too visible. Not only did he find himself no longer invited to nice meetings of crime bosses but also was the target of harsh crack downs by the local authorities. In the space of a year Serigan found himself no longer on the top but with a high price on his head from both the normal folks who like to put bounties on heads, but, also on the hit lists of the crime bosses that he once wanted to be like. Serigan's walls closed in and a damp cell for the rest of his life was the best he could hope for. Just like he entered the stage, with flash and a bloodbath, he left it. He fled to the West. He ran until he couldn't run anymore. With little money and nowhere to go he found his answer. Turns out there was a guild for people like him. A guild for people with no skills aside from the kind that result in trips to the local hospital. Why not pop in and see if they just happen to need a strong arm to lift a sword? Maybe, just maybe, there would be room for advancement.