- Name: Eirost Gwynn
Nickname: Rost
Age: 23
Social Class: Artisan
Occupation: Glassblower
APPEARANCE
Of hardly more than average height, if that at all, Rost is not immediately impressive in appearance. He's hardly broad, either, though his shoulders are wide and if he'd instead been born in a more tropical location, he may have been an excellent swimmer. Well, except for how pale he is; he certainly wasn't created for sun. Rosy white skin, washed over with more than his fair share of freckles, is stretched over his lean, short frame, though his face and hands seem permanently more red because of the hours and hours he spends in front of the heat of the glassworks, almost sunburned but with fire instead. His hair is red, bright with undertones of gold, a wavy mess shoulder-length and shaggy, woven with a few beads of hand-spun glass baubles, barely kept tame and swept back from his face by a wool scarf like a headband. His eyes are more hazel than any true color—sometimes green, sometimes blue, mostly gray—set above strong cheekbones and a ready wry grin, lopsided.
Under his right cheek is a short melted pucker of flesh, further tilting his often-worn smile, and just a hint of the dangers of his work. His arms and hands are littered with burns, but what makes the danger of his work obvious are the ugly gnarls of scar tissue that wind up from knee to lick just under his ribs along his left side—a wound that should have been fatal, but wasn't. Rost was too stubborn to let the fire and exploding glass win. He limps now, and has little patience for long distances by foot. In his shop, he uses no assistance, but out on the ice, he has a cane of hand-carved bone and leather.
His work is hot, sweaty, comfortable to some, a terrible furnace to most. Years in front of the ovens melting and molding glass have shaped him into someone well-suited for the cold. He's hot-blooded by nature, the heat of melted glass in his veins, and as such always seems to dress lighter than most, even on the coldest of days, though he's no fool and still owns enough warmth in furs and leather, though he's stifled inside if he finds himself in too many layers, preferring to get away with the minimal at all times, even if it means a peek more than the normal hint of rosy pale skin and freckles.
PERSONALITY
Rost is creative, but enjoys playing with fire. He's a volatile mix of expressive and interested but somewhat reclusive and hot-headed. He likes detail, technique, careful craftsmanship. He likes a good laugh and a strong drink. He likes watching things burn, melt, change. He works with glass and he can be delicate, but more with his hands than with the words off his lips—he's loud and more often than not full of something foul, be it a joke or a string of words when something shatters across the stone floor of his shop.
He's not shy about his limp or his accident. It happened, he survived and he didn't have to sell himself to the spirits to live. Does he like the attention? No, not much, but will he show you the ugly pink burn? Yes. Just to watch your face when you see it.
Rost is sociable and can accidentally vie for life of the party if work has been too generous to him, but too much interaction makes him tired and he drags himself back to his studio to hide behind drawings or spend hours in front of the baking heat of glass ovens. When things don't go his way, he'll break things—glass, bones, whichever is in his way. He's got a temper, but it's buried under a decent enough sense of humor and twisted pink scars. He's apt to burying it further under too many drinks when he finds himself with spare change, if he hasn't wasted it all finding more fancy minerals to color his glass with instead.
He's a minimalist in his personal life, preferring things organized and simple—everything has its place in his shop and you'd better be invited before you touch things that aren't yours. He's most at home in his shop, sweating in front of the ovens with something taking shape out of molten glass by the breath of his lungs and the sweat of his brow. When everything is running smoothly, with his vision taking the shape as he sees it, it's a good day and it's hard to drag him down.
ABILITIES
Rost makes things out of glass—some things are pretty like fine drinkwear or chandeliers, but other things are practical like lamp globes and beads. He blows glass, he shapes glass, he makes glass, he melts glass, and, more often than not, he breaks glass, too. While he enjoys the challenge of bigger projects for their scale and the physical taxation it requires of his limited strength, he excels in the detail. The finer works are his specialty, but he keeps that to himself, weeding out the waste of time customers (when he can afford it) with a gruff, socially inept front that quickly melts away when he hears the right words. He recognizes that there's always room for growth and improvement—being creative requires that, and he often has to keep up with the changing demands of his noble patrons at a rate that's uncomfortable at best. His main problem is focus. When given a scope too large or too broad, he struggles to come up with creative direction and will find himself stalling on the project until he finds the right inspiration. This can often land him in trouble with demanding employers or tight deadlines. Too spontaneous to be a good planner, this has been to his detriment many a time, much to the lightness of his wallet or the grumbling of his stomach.
Socially, he struggles with appropriateness. He may understand his place well enough, but that doesn't mean he's comfortable in it or that he appreciates being talked down to. He considers his skill an art not a toy, and can "forget" when he should shut it and smile and nod politely when his passions have run high. However, since he tends hide himself away behind his glass ovens and in front of fire whenever possible, he doesn't find himself inappropriately rubbing elbows too often. When he's in the right element—the right mix of people—he's loud and funny and even generous when he can be. Even outside of glassblowing work, however, he tends to break like his precious material under too much pressure—often with the same explosive results.
Physically, he's not as able to get around as he once did, the twisted, burnt flesh of his leg and hip limiting the safe distance he can travel over ice and snow by foot, unable to climb without considerable effort and looking like an idiot, and is prone to over-taxing himself when working because he's not one to quit when he's close to perceived perfection in a piece, even when his body is tired. He can still swing a mean fist, though, sober or not.
HOBBIES
Drinking. Gambling. Sometimes fighting. Drawing figures, scenery, and landscapes. Eating ridiculous amounts of food when money allows. Collecting feathers of unusual color … if only to inspire him for his more secret hobby of making little glass birds. Tiny things, ridiculously bright hues of finely blown glass that fit in the palm of your hand. A testament to his skill, but also a slight sign of daydreaming. He makes them when no one is around and brings them home tucked away in the layers of his coat. He has a small cupboard full of the beautiful things. They're a far contrast to the cold and he likes to imagine there's birds like them somewhere warm and far away. No one has seen them.
