𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: Cire'zi Dhenrixa

despite this, he calls himself Henry.

𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐞: Mi'qote, Keeper of the Moon
𝐀𝐠𝐞: Twenty-six
𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲: Fifth day of the Fifth Astral Moon
𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐲: Rhalgr, the Destroyer.
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: Male

It is beyond all, crucial, to make a good impression. The salesman takes every fraction of his demeanor first and foremost to ensure pleasant service, even in face of harassment. To that end, he is bright, considerable, and lenient-- a learned trait he'd mastered over the years of salesmanship. Beneath the surface, he is still as frightened when he first begun. The cat is stressed, crestfallen and anxious, and worries that it will be like this forever.

The cat travels in packs, far too 'fraid to be by his lonesome on empty streets. You might find him flocked to eccentrics, occultists, the like. they're not contacts- and they're not friends he'd consider. but the more the merrier. he's particularly acquainted with the kind folk at

v&v.

in sight
roving around like rats, the salesman is occasionally beholden to seedy acts in the dead of night. considering his small presence, perhaps he's a possible witness to a bad deed done. not that he'll comment.

beyond that, though, one could say that they've seen him in a little too many places for comfort. it cant just be a coincidence.

— The makings of a bitter, unhappy man. He's angry at the world that can so easily dismiss him, at his failings, at his fortune that's so far beyond his reach. And then, as if to complicate his hatred, his amiable youth still insists he helps others.

The selfish cat buries that voice, deep within the recesses of his thoughts.

He escapes himself in the ale-ridden corners of casinos, coalescence with all bodies of decadence, chasing momentary freedom with glee. Then he awakes from his drunken slumber, perspired and groggy, and greets his reflection with a self-loathing sneer.

how vile.

knave
a card counter. if you frequent casinos often, you might've seen him in the act. maybe he even cheated you!

BREADWINNER
he is a salesman, and among one of the most irritating. It's more than likely you've seen him about.

STRESSED
The cat's in debt. It doesn't take much swaying to coerce him into foul acts-- despite what he would say otherwise.

pale cat crossing
his misfortune is literal, and in full view most times. perhaps you're a scholar interested in such unlikely matters, how the sky would rage down at him at random. or maybe you want to try your hand at curing his blight ..

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Cire'zi was born at an undisclosed time, on the fifth day of the fifth moon, with a yearning to learn. He was raised alongside the rest of his kinsmen. When he was ripe of age he was set to wander away from his home. Where his ambitions laid were as pure as his skin were devoid of cuts and scars. To manifest his learning as means of helping the world, and naturally, was drawn to the Arcanist's guild.

He was initiated with little trouble, melding into their ranks with even less; becoming all familiar with their mathematical equations, their vernacular and the leather of their books. The awe did not last.

It were as he sprung into the articulate finesse of spell-crafting that there loomed a sickly, perverse corruption in his lifeblood; where aether was helpless to explain. As though some sentience had come alive and wrought 'pon his calculations. Every probability brought null; for the same inexplicable reason—his damned, fucking luck.

The cat retired from his research, after milling over his studies for some time already. He was let go, and off to make work of what wits and spells he'd harbored.

And it fails quickly, as though acknowledging the blight had angered it's wrath. Every caravan breaks down. Every bank rolls back. He becomes an omen among merchants, where he sucks the novelty from objects- leave them to rust.

In the midst of his failures, he resorts to debauchery, where his stupor were his shield against the lapses that rode his shoulders. He becomes rabble among casino drunks, between the stupid and vexed, and he plays his hand at a Blackjack table for long enough that he starts to count.

In the end, there is no one that loathes the salesman's cheer more than himself.

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