Appearance

Special abilities

Sinser has an uncanny talent in replicating a person's physical form, personality, and voice.

Mentality

Personal history

Little can be said about the man with no name.
 
He came from the humblest of beginnings, a vagrant from the Tribes of Nel’Tark, traveling town to town in his derelict carriage. He was an odd child, being described as “akin to a blank canvas” with the “personality of a sack of flour” by his peers and his father. Unremarkable in every single way. For the first few years of his life, he was purely an observer. A shadow in the background of everyone else, sitting on the steps of his father’s carriage, watching as the children argued about who won their little games, salesmen with their heads peering from their shops shouting about their “new outrageous prices,” and the harlots attempting to whisk over any passerby to perform their “services.”
 
His mother was out of the picture, having been dead since his birth. His father was the textbook definition of a charlatan, a sly conman with a silver tongue that had managed to deceive, fool, and lie his way through to making a living for himself and the boy. The boy who would watch his father’s exploits, quietly taking notes in his head with every interaction he’s witnessed, the techniques, and its results. His father called himself a healer. A salesman of endless tonics and brews that can remedy the most viscous of diseases. By trade, he was an alchemist, creating concoctions in the back of his carriage. His father had built an empire over time, donning a clean shaven, grinning face as he attempted to reel in a new client, or “sucker” as he’d call them in secret.
 
His father had a thick blanket of pure charisma over him at all times, a certain charm and beguiling influence that washed away as soon as he entered the carriage. The color would drain from his skin until it was a ghoulish white, his eyes a striking alabaster. A drunken, wrathful man to the boy.
 
As time went on, the boy’s observations grew to be useful. From the interactions he’s seen, he started to formulate proper social etiquette. He started developing a personality in order to get on the better side of people, so they would like him, and more importantly, to get what he wants. The boy studied his father the most, the way he would talk to people, the way he would present himself, the mannerisms he had to appear more trustworthy and friendly. He also watched as his father concocted brews late at night, swishing vials and chemicals together. He saw what certain mixtures did, what effects they can give the consumer, and the cheapest ingredients they can be made with. He memorized it all.
 
Eventually, as the boy grew even older, his father died, leaving behind a legacy of lies, tricks, and connections that funded their way of living. His father was truly a man with no name, having it changed with every settlement they set foot in, donning a new disguise to meet with clients, and they would never suspect a thing. But now that he’s gone, there would be questions, and people looking for answers.
 
In life, everything was a show. The world's a stage, and to get what you want you have to have the guile to sway things in your favor. Sometimes you’d have to sweet-talk an old lady to get some sweets. Other times, you’d have to scare a kid into giving his weekly allowance. This time, he knew what he had to do.
 
He stripped the clothes from his father’s body, put them on, then stared at himself in the mirror. There was a tug at the corners of his mouth, eventually forming into a toothy grin as he slowly donned the form of his now deceased father. He memorized every crease, every wrinkle, and every twitch in that man’s face. Without another thought, he stepped out into the world as his father, leaving his past life behind. He burnt the body, burying his charred remains deep into the badlands in a shallow grave. Unmarked, and unremarkable.
 
For a while, it worked, meeting up with his father’s clientele and peddling them the same shit they’ve been siphoning their pockets for. He’d been doing this for a year or two without any signs of stopping. There was a thrill he felt, the thrill of the con as he stood in front of these people, a lie spewing out with every word, and watching them gobble it all up. He became beloved, a figure of pure charisma, peddling items for great prices.
 
But of course, there were some that saw through his guise. A man by the name of Clayton Landry, a butcher suffering from a tumor in his left leg that he was promised would go away with state of the art “Flumph Oil.” From what the salesmen picked up on after seeing him many times throughout his father’s exploits, this man lived alone. Widower. No children. Despite having a simple career, Landry was smarter than he looked, often haggling with his father in ways that would favor him more. This semblance of intelligence is probably what alerted him about the salesman. The problem with the disguise the salesman made for himself was that it was completely from memory, and nobody’s perfect, so there was something eerily off with his appearance.
 
Landry burst through the door of his carriage in the dead of night, a time where the salesman peels his outer layer and reveals his true form, seeing him for what he really was. He had to act quickly, or else this empire could fall apart. Taking one of the bottles of flumph oil, he smashed it over Landry’s head. Landry stumbled out the carriage, falling upon the sandy ground, shooting up clouds of dust on all sides. Amidst the sandy fog, the salesman emerged, jumping on top of him and siphoning the life from Landry as his hands closed around his throat. Landry thrashed, legs kicking to no avail. He started to let out a chortled, screeching cry as the salesman stared into his face with wide, blank eyes. Studying every minute detail. Landry was a fighter, and lasted longer than the average person getting strangled. The salesman looked up at the town windows, anticipating at any moment that somebody would look through the window and see the atrocity that was being committed. It had to be quick. Precise. Under the nose of all these townspeople. The salesman took the nearby bottle and dug it into Landry’s head, until the blood curdling cries were no more, until his face was unrecognizable. The salesman sat there for a bit while longer, blood on his clothes, sitting atop the stomach of Clayton Landry. That was a thrill like no other, a satisfying climax to the years of pretending.
 
Nonetheless, he still killed Clayton Landry. An action that is extremely detrimental to the salesman’s business.
 
He dragged the body into the carriage. He stripped it of its clothes, stood up, then stared at himself in the mirror. Slowly, the blank, unremarkable canvas started to contort. He became heavier, a balding head with a thick beard. A slight tilt to his right as he stood to alleviate any weight on his left leg. A new act.
 
The salesman donned a new name. “Clayton Landry.”
 
He stepped out of the carriage as this “Clayton Landry,” tilizing every aspect of his established personality and role in the town to clean up the murder before disappearing from the town. He needed to get rid of the body, and fortunately, Landry was a butcher. He needed to disappear, and Landry had no friends and family. He was just one nameless butcher of many. He was not going to be missed. He was lonely, downtrodden, easy pickings. That’s what made him so easy to con.
 
Leaving that town, he remembered how it felt. Killing Landry. There was an empty feeling in his gut that has been persisting since he was a child, but in that very moment, it went away. He slept like a baby that night, and woke up with a new sense of purpose as he meticulously planned. There was a flash of brilliance as his head shot towards the inside of the carriage. A list of all his father’s clients, hand picked for how stupid and desperate they were so they can be scammed all the easier. He felt as if it were some divine blessing that everything was lined up so perfectly.
 
He looked down at the list, at the next victim.
 
“Sinser Tefick” it said. A performer in a traveling circus, who had been suffering from alleged insomnia. He had peddled many “remedies” to the naive, hopeful Sinser for years now.
 
Insomnia. He wouldn’t be sleeping much, then, so striking while he is asleep is obviously unlikely.
 
From what he remembers, though, he was quite small. Fragile. Susceptible to any harmful gas due to his small, frail body.
 
Traveling on the rocky road, the vials and bottles stored in the carriage clinking together allowed him to form a plan.
 
“Chloroform” he thought. A “sleep tonic.” He’ll gobble that shit up.
 
And when he’s gone, then he’ll be easy pickings.

Personality

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