This is my second set of original character portraits I did from descriptions posted by Redditors from their own stories.

The olive skin now almost white, did a poor job of hiding the dark rings under his eyes, the brand on his forehead appearing to float over the light skin. Saul had barely glimpsed the sun since entering the dungeon, and while his master occasionally let him out for other tasks, they always called for night and shadow.

The King was a tall, handsome man though he sat slumped in his throne. He had a high, proud nose, thin lips painted purple and black for the occasion, and dark eyes set deep into pale flesh. Framed by long black hair falling in layers to stiff shoulders, the King’s face was a tense mask of attention and concern. Below his right eye was a scar in the shape of the slanted V; the crest of Varz. His eyes were distinct, the eyes of a sorcerer, as they were much like the reverse of normal eyes; dark black orbs with white irises.

Thick fingers parted, and the golem peeked out with flat, onyx eyes. It put a stony palm to the gravel and pushed itself to its feet, as if it were a statue of a man thrusting into shape from the scattered rocks.

Cecil had seen Siltskins before—although always from the impersonal distance of the road on those occasions he’d driven past a pitchblende mine. The golem was intimidating in close quarters, and Cecil missed his rifle once again.

His eyes are sunken and his face is gaunt. He looks like he never sleeps, or is perpetually hungover. He also rarely smiles. His black hair is thinning, so he keeps it close cropped. He hasn’t cut it in a while. He’s clean shaven, usually, but he’ll often go a few days without shaving. He used to be a linguistics professor in the city, so he can’t shake the professional demeanor that still sets his stance and attire, but it’s started to fray a little in his retirement. With no university elite to hobnob, Bras is comfortable rolling his sleeves up, wearing his tunic unbelted, and swearing. Smudges of ink on his nose, brow, and fingers are very common from translating journals. He has a tattoo of a slave collar around his throat, a tradition from his hometown.

Male mid-forties. Tall, thin faced with sharp features. Slightly narrow tired dark eyes and thin eyebrows. A single deep scar running from below right eye to jaw line. Clean shaven with tidy short dark hair which is beginning to grey. Wears battered scale armour.

Severe looking but not lacking in compassion. Exhausted from decades of loss/hardship and the worry of immense responsibility but resilient and determined nonetheless.

I had short auburn hair, which bristled out in all directions, and pale blue eyes. The girls at my school used to tease that I looked like an old broom.

His black curly hair was the only messy part of him, everything else drawn in fine lines and sharp angles. His face, he knew, looked just a little alien from other people, his cheek bones set too high, his face a touch too long, but most people didn’t notice either of those things. They did notice his sharp blue eyes, staring out with burning curiosity, often mistaken for a sort of impishness.

A hulking, brozed beast of a man, raised by lions in the Wastes of Despair. He’s buff, scarred, and usually shirtless and sweaty. He has long blond hair and a large blond beard that come together to resemble a lion’s mane. He burned his face near his eyes to mimic a lion’s dark “eyeliner.” He has a thick, flat nose and a large brow. He’s a serious swashbuckler and a super-awesome murderer. He loves berries.