Even hunched over the bar, it was clear the drifter was tall, easily overtopping six feet, with sturdy limbs, unbent by hard labor or shackles. That wasn't to say he didn't have broad shoulders, and muscles in all the places a man should. No, this was a man who had tested himself and not found his physique wanting.

There was a crash of glass shattering against the floor, and in a heartbeat, the drifter was on his feet, staring hard at the offending noise. The face matched the physique, hard and chiseled, with a few day's growth of dark hair spreading across it. A thick roll of dried tobacco smoldered between the drifter's full lips, a white plume drifting up past his narrowed green eyes, past the brim of the wide hat he wore, to mingle with the cloud he'd left at the bar as he smoked and drank.

The spin had thrown his heavy leather duster open, revealing well-worn clothes beneath. There were no insignias, not anymore, but it was impossible to mistake Imperial field fatigues for much of anything else. The stranger was Realm-Born, or at least wearing their clothes, and the nonchalance with which he did, implied the former rather than the latter.

It was only then that you noticed the flamepiece shivering in his hand.

[Appearance 5]