All lithe grace and cynicism, is Kerrigan, tall and dancer-built, with a shock of fair hair to his shoulders. Sea-blue eyes glint with occasional wry humor. A cool smile heightens the sharpness of his features, hints at mockery. Marring one sunbrowned cheek is a faint semicircular scar. He is dressed plainly, his white shirt worn but immaculately clean; trousers a little frayed, boots a little scuffed. A silver chain bracelet graces one thin wrist, and a wedding ring gleams on his finger. He is probably in his mid-thirties.
There.
BABY pictures!??! Gods of hell... oh, all right, here. Me at ten. And don't say a word.
A half-grown boy, lean and sunbrowned, his wind-tousled golden hair restrained by a grubby linen band about his forehead, Kerrigan is the image of the typical Port St. Alison street urchin. He is tall for his age, clad in ragged trousers and an even more ragged tunic of once-blue broadcloth, and his feet are bare and decidedly grimy. Despite all this he moves with a certain lithe grace, and his bright blue eyes have, more often than not, a winning gleam.
Descriptions (c) 1999 Abby Goutal.