Roxy Saxon

The crossbow at Roxy’s hip could easily be misconstrued as a weapon from some alternate future, where hurled bolts are a laughable antiquity. The device is covered in small levers and knobs, almost begging to be calibrated. Pieces of the weapon gleam in rays of bright sunlight, like the facets of a well shaped gem. Other pieces seem to absorb light’s reflection, making it difficult to determine its exact shape. You imagine that staring down this device could be as innocuous as glimpsing the outstretched hand of a friend pointing towards the horizon, or as intimidating as the realization that what may come your way is a message from death itself. The only obvious facts about the device are that it is rare among such instruments and that it holds a special place in the heart of its owner.

Certainly so, Roxy shows more love and affection to her crossbow than she does to most sentient objects. Her stare is piercing and deep where the living are concerned, as though every nuance of her subject was an important factor to be weighed and judged. It’s quite obvious to those with an eye for such things that Roxy doesn’t enter a room without sizing up its various attributes; exits, entrances, people, weapons, hideaways, and so forth.

Ask her about her thoughtful nature and you’ll likely get an earful of silence. For an eclectic slight elven woman of impressing beauty words are not a necessary tool. Lead with a stare, instruct with a batted lash, impress with a dead-eye stapling shot from a superior implement of focused destruction … it’s all the same. Communication is more about action to this veteran and less about explanation. If others are to respect you, the philosophy goes, then you must impress upon them the value, and threat, of your skills. Allow them to question your nature and the perils of life become more dire.

It is from these surroundings that Roxy has come to find herself in the stead of what must certainly be good people. She shows a willingness to strive against the tide of evil deeds and even takes initiative in such regard. Her loyalty, you would suspect, is strong enough to be relied upon. Still, the weight of some passed life can be seen on her face when, in those rare instances, she fails to notice that she’s being watched.

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The Tear of Ioun Bresil