Wandering the Complex
There's a man wandering around the first floor of the apartment complex. He is of average height, maybe six feet, with what could have been sandy colored hair if it wasn't shorn so close it was simple fuzz and unremarkable brown eyes. He's armed, with a rifle of some sort slung over his shoulder and a small sword strapped to the base of his back. But he doesn't look very threatening, just really tired and in pain, as his nose looks broken and still slightly bloody.
He's Dacen even if he hates that name because he doesn't know he's Revan. He really should have asked Krauser where the hell anything is in this place, but the way their conversation was going it would turn out that to go to the top floor you needed to stand on your head and get smacked with clubs. This place sucks. Dacen hasn't decided whether to find a doctor or find somebody to confirm he isn't a vampire so the local security doesn't jump to any embarassingly fatal conclusions. He should pick the latter. Decen can handle some pain, but embarassing death? No thanks.
He's Dacen even if he hates that name because he doesn't know he's Revan. He really should have asked Krauser where the hell anything is in this place, but the way their conversation was going it would turn out that to go to the top floor you needed to stand on your head and get smacked with clubs. This place sucks. Dacen hasn't decided whether to find a doctor or find somebody to confirm he isn't a vampire so the local security doesn't jump to any embarassingly fatal conclusions. He should pick the latter. Decen can handle some pain, but embarassing death? No thanks.