Character Glossary, Sorcery and Sandstorms, The Weaver’s War, writing

Zaire

Full name: Zaire Rexallis DuGronde

Pronunciation: Zye-ear

Age: 64

Height: 6′ 6″

Physical Features: Pale skin with a dusting of glacier blue near the temples. Long blue black hair, indigo eyes.

Smells Like: Impending rain with a faint metallic edge

Birthday: 15th of February

Hails From: Rylle

Favourite Food: Lemon Gelati

Favourite Drink: Iced Coffee

Of Note:
– Fourth son of NobleHouse DuGronde
– Twice anointed silver scrolled rogue
– Carrier of the prototype bio-mech virus code named FauxLife
– Galactic Ambassador for Rylle along with his cousin, Eyrton

First Appearance: Sorcery and Sandstorms

The man beside him stiffened, then slowly raised his head. His skin was pale, with a soft dusting of glacier blue near the temples that flowed seamlessly into his blue-black hair. His eyes were a deep indigo and long, sweeping cheekbones tapered into an elegant jawline. Full lips were pressed into a thin line somewhere between pain and disapproval, long fingers tight around the edges of the book. “You really have read this.”

Grudgingly admitted, but in a voice smooth as silk and just as soft. Banishing the bad boy retort he’d been planning, Flare smiled gently. “Yeah. Sorry if I took you by surprise – I’m new.”

“Obviously,” the other replied, “Or you’d not be sitting here talking to me.”

“I appear to be cursed by a place card,” Flare replied, raising an eyebrow at the man’s odd attitude. “Am I likely to combust for being seen in your presence?”

The man blinked, a slow lowering of dark lashes far too luxuriant for the hard lines of his face. “Perhaps.”

Taller than Flare, perhaps six foot six – though Flare’s shoes made them a similar height – wiry with a good layer of musculature over the top. Blue-black hair shimmered in the light as he raised his glass and clinked it against Flare’s empty one with the sharp, true peal of which only crystal was capable. “Rylle welcomes Sorcen to the Galactic Alliance,” he said, and threw back his firewhiskey.

Setting one forearm on the table, Flare leant over until they were almost nose to nose. Zaire smelt of impending rain with a faintly metallic edge, a refreshing and surprisingly pleasant scent that matched his pale, blue-tinted skin and dark hair perfectly. “Is that a threat?”

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