Name: Gunther Theodoric August Everett

Residence: Apartment 352, Favillian Unification War Memorial Tenement, Blythewind District

Appearance: Gunther is a man of slightly above average height and modest build, whose dark hair is usually cut short and messily unstyled, and whose chin is usually adorned with a short, pointed goatee. His brown-eyed, almost triangular-looking face is a recognizable one amongst those who frequent Safantha's seedy underworld, known by most as belonging to a reputable procurer of official-looking documents and licenses of questionable origin, a seller and buyer of an eclectic variety of questionably legal goods, and an insatiable gossip, although he would never admit to that last one. Befitting a man of his profession, Gunther most often wears one of his many well-worn, sturdy longcoats, overtop a similarly well-worn shirt, with a pair of pocket-filled cargo pants, a pair of heavy-duty working boots, and, occasionally, a wide-brimmed hat, all of a nondescript drab, brown, or grey colour. Although capable of more respectable dress when the situation merits; practical, unobtrusive, and easy to stash full of merchandise are the bywords of Gunther's typical fashion.

Personality: To acquaintances, Gunther seems to be a laid-back and affable fellow, although not a gregarious nor excitable one. To those who know him better, those same qualities are complemented by a calculating, analytical mind and an uninhibited, insatiable curiosity. His speech and mannerisms mark him as someone with a degree of formal education and cultured upbringing uncommon amongst his fellows in Safantha's underworld, although one that has obviously been tempered by years of harder, less honest living. And, although quite professional and competent at his underworld trade, Gunther's amiable demeanor seems to be entirely genuine, as he rarely, if ever, displays the kind of ruthlessness and callousness often shown by other underworld denizens. Not that Gunther is a pacifist of any description, as he is not unwilling to fight lethally when the situations demands, but he doesn't often fight out of anger or cruelty, but instead out of pragmatism. Those who witness Gunther fight, whether with blades or with guns, will notice an unusual fighting style that combines elements of refined, formal weapons training with a variety of dirty, cheap tricks picked up on the streets.

Sample RP:

The long, stone hallway was pitch black. Or, it would have been, if not for a pale, silvery light, seemingly without a source, that illuminated a shifty-looking man, the large-ish cloth bag he was carrying, and his immediate surroundings. That man walked swiftly, but quietly down the hallway, the mysterious silvery light following him, until he reached a hefty, locked wooden door. The man tinkered with the lock for barely a moment, and then pushed the door open cautiously. The man winced as the door creaked only slightly, but quickly regained his composure, as he heard no signs that anyone had noticed his blunder. The man peeked through the newly-opened door into the adjoining room, which was filled with boxes and crates of various sizes. A warehouse of sorts, evidently. There was the unmistakable glow of a lantern, bobbing along near the far righthand corner of the room. A patrol of sorts, most likely. The man waited until the silvery light surrounding him had extinguished, before heading into the room, relying on the glow of the patrol's lantern to provide adequate light.

The man had heard earlier, from his associates who were familiar with the goods that passed through these warehouses, that a shipment of personal firearms had arrived yesterday evening, presumably to help replenish those that were lost in the recent incident in the city garrison's barracks. That same incident also meant that the street price of firearms was higher than it had been since the the Great War, which the man hoped to capitalize on, before the city's supply of arms was replenished.

The man walked slowly and carefully around the crates, keeping out of sight of the patrol, but near enough that he could rely on their light for guidance. It was a difficult balance, but one that he was adept at maintaining. He briefly took note of all the crates he passed, until he came across one marked with the unmistakable crossed-pistols sigil of Radikesse's Royal Small Arms Foundry. The man stopped, and took a brief look around. It looked like he had only had a precious few minutes until the patrol sweeped this position, even less if he made another blunder and alerted them to his presence. He quickly got to work, cautiously prying off the lid of the crate, which took him almost a whole minute, but was perfectly silent. He then proceeded to empty as much of the crate's contents as he was comfortable carrying into his bag, his longcoat's many pouches, and his pants' oversized pockets. The largest items, rifles and shotguns, went into the bag, while the revolvers, ammunition, and hand grenades went into his pockets and pouches. After almost two minutes of careful thievery, the man carefully slid the crate's lid back into position, and moved to head back to the hallway he entered from.

Just as the man started moving briskly, but quietly towards the door he had left open, the glow of the patrol's lantern approached rapidly, as the lead patrolman stepped into viewing range of him. The patrolman only saw the light from his lantern weirdly distorted, though, and he stood motionless for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face, until he saw the door to the room across from him, hanging open. And then the weird distortion vanished from his sight. As his colleagues followed up behind him, he shook his head and sighed to them: "I really should stop working all these night shifts, and go get myself some proper sleep. I think I'm starting to see things, and it looks like I must've left the door open when I arrived."