Oh, ça ferait très bien! Le sourire de Serigan étiré pour l'oreille à l'oreille alors qu'il s'asseyait dans le salon avec ses bottes défoncées sur la table. Il avait un bol du bon ragoût qu'ils offraient ici, mieux que le vieux cuz qu'il jetait ensemble, et qu'il sirotait sur son verre de whisky. C'était un bon millésime aussi. Ses garçons avaient fait un whisky à la maison qu'ils appelaient 'Cuttah brasse' et c'était aussi mauvais que l'air. Ils l'ont brassé à partir des feuilles dans les tas de poubelles et les ruelles du vieux Ullarn. Serigan a descendu la boisson avec un soupir reconnaissant. Oh oui, sirrah, ça va. Ses yeux bleus suivaient le vieil homme qu'il voyait errer dans les couloirs ces derniers temps. Le vieux bâtard était là depuis plus longtemps que Ser, mais ça n'avait pas d'importance. Ce qui compte vraiment, c'est que le vieux dur avait l'air d'avoir vu quelques poignards avec des lames coincées dans le dos de quelqu'un d'autre. Ser connaissait le regard. Il n'est peut-être plus un 'Jumpah', mais il pourrait l'être à nouveau. Il a vu les doigts du cabillaud tordre et démangeaisons. C'est un coup de couteau s'il en avait vu un, et il l'a fait. Lui et la tête rouge perky qui avait une sorte de "Y" me regarde vers le haut? Je vais me mettre à l'eau! Une sorte de sensation pour elle. Oui, ces deux-là seraient les premiers. Serigan s'est tenu après quelques minutes de contemplation et a balayé son bâton dans sa main. "Le temps est venu, hein?" Il a dit à l'air libre et à la strate de la pièce. Son boucleur et son dussack se cliquent avec un son doux, le rythme au rythme de sa grosse canne sur le sol. Le vieux gangster a traversé l'entrée de la guilde et a regardé le conseil du contrat. "J'étais en train de chercher de l'herbe, mon amour." Il a atteint l'une de ses mains comme une grille et a arraché un contrat séparé du conseil d'administration. Celui qu'ils feraient, bien, une fois qu'il leur l'a offert. L'homme massif a traversé le hall d'entrée et a élevé sa canne dans un salut simulé à l'administrateur de la guilde. "Off'a cueillir des mauvaises herbes, je le suis. Revenir à la discussion ou'futya chillun, hein?" Il lui a fait un clin d'œil ludique et a quitté la Guilde avant de pouvoir s'arrêter ou se regonfler.
Serigan descendit le centre de la route pavée. Le soleil brillait et tout était très agréable. Ça l'a rendu malade. Il ne se souvenait même pas avoir vu le soleil quand il était jeune. Le ciel était noir et gris et tout le monde à Ullarn le savait. Ça, c'était juste obscène. Trop lumineux, trop chaud, trop frais. Il pouvait respirer l'air et ne même pas s'inquiéter d'avoir une toux. Il se demandait comment ces gens arrêtaient les voleurs. Pas de traces dans la suie et pas de toux prématurée comme préambule à la disparition prématurée. La ferme n'était pas trop loin, c'était bien. Le moins de temps qu'il ait passé dans cette lumière oppressive a toujours été une bonne chose. Comme la vue de la ferme est venu en vue Serigan a pris vue de ses deux marques aussi. Ouais, ils étaient là, gaspillant du temps et de l'effort en tirant des mauvaises herbes comme des enfants. Eh bien, voici leur opportunité.
Serigan est passé aux deux avec son swagger habituel de chef de gang. Il leva sa canne pour les saluer avant de passer au bord du champ. Il y avait tellement de plantes. Les gens de retour dans la suie auraient, et l'ont fait, tuer pour de la nourriture comme celle-ci. Maintenant, le voilà, tout est rangé en rangées. Serigan a scanné l'horizon presque choqué qu'il n'ait pas vu de bandits attendant de frapper et de frapper tous les verts luxuriants. "Hot'ere, hein?" Il a dit avec un sourire sur le visage. "Il a glissé vers les mauvaises herbes que les deux tiraient, "N'a-t-on vu n'importe quoi comme ça, d'où je viens." Serigan marcha, s'assurant de ne pas marcher sur la nourriture précieuse, et jeta l'une des mauvaises herbes hors du sol avec l'extrémité pondérée de sa canne. La plante vola dans un arc gracieux au-dessus des quelques rangées de plantes à sa gauche. Serigan lâcha un sifflet tranquille en admiration pour son coup de feu. "Lis'en'ere." le grand homme a dit d'un ton calme et joyeux, "Je vais un cerveau maléfique et un cœur d'ange. Ol'Cuttah vient avec un moyen de ne pas faire de vraies piles." Il retourna les yeux vers les deux autres. "Pullin'weeds s'fine, fer'chillun, Ol'Cuttah sait quand même des choses." Serigan a tapé son front avec la tête de sa canne et sa bouche tiré dans un sourire préditoire, "Voir, ol'Cuttah ici a le toucher, voir. Il peut voir l'avenir. ol'Cuttah voit trois champions. Il voit "moi-même, un "cours." Il a fait un geste avec la pointe de la canne à Mable, en utilisant la chose comme le chef d'un professeur, "A beau'ful an'dangerous Kilie", le point de sa canne a traîné vers le vieil homme, "An' a ol'knife tha's toujours pointu's a rasor." Son chef impromu s'est renversé et a pointé vers une pile imaginaire aux pieds de Serigan, "Wit un tas de porcs morts à leurs pieds." Serigan planta sa canne dans le trou où la mauvaise herbe qu'il avait brisée s'asseyait. "Une pile d'un "clips aussi grand que ol'Cuttah'ere. "Pour chacun des champions." Serigan a retiré le contrat pour la mort des sangliers qui avaient été des caravanes troublantes. Un contrat de trois étoiles. "Trois étoiles. Trois champions. Trois tonnes de clips qu'on s'est séparés. N'est-ce pas de l'herbe qui nous tire dessus, hein?" Serigan étendit les bras et attendait la réponse. Il pensait qu'il avait été convaincant. Il espérait juste qu'ils pourraient comprendre son accent oriental.
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.