Lord Alistar Sierra

The man was in his late forties, perhaps early fifties. He was clean shaven, his black hair slicked back, shoulder length, showing slight salt and pepper to it, marking his age. He was just over six feet tall, fit and of a more thick set build, with obvious Koltani heritage in his jaw line and facial structure, with pale green eyes that didn't smile with the rest of his face. He was dressed in fitted and tailored finery, black leggings of the finest quality, with a pale blue silk shirt, and deep grey dinner jacket, the buttons of which were beautifully stamped bronze bearing his company's crest, a frothing beer stien. He carried no obvious weapons, though upon closer inspection one would notice the slight bulge at his left hip beneath the jacket, not quite bulky enough in profile to be a pistol or crossbow, likely a dagger or knife. He cut the perfect gentleman, gracious, well spoken, courteous but not overbearing, with perfect ettiquete. However there was something in his demeanor and in his face that just sent shivers down the spine.

"Its the eyes, I'm telling you all. I have a sense for these things. The man's eyes do not smile with his face. They burn with rage and anger, though he hides it well. There is something wholly evil about that man."
Alyssa Windglass

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Alistar Sierra is carrying one of the Butcher's Shards, his knife is actually one piece of the monstrous zweihander, Spine-Seeker, and he is wholly enthralled by the piece, his soul entirely corrupted into a servant of Iracundia, the Ruined God of Wrath. He has a violent temperment, and the recent....heinous actions of the Black Street Butchers, their change in...professional behavior is at his influence. In the span of but three years he has turned the assassin's guild wholly into a Cult of Wrath.