Duke Anze Malvici
I am not a good man, and I am not a bad man.
Obituary: Duke Anze Malvici had been out of the spotlight in public for the last few months, supposedly investigating a personal project that he shared with no one- which wasn't unusual, as he was something of a lone wolf. So very few have any answers when his body turns up in the Lower Boroughs in an alleyway not far from the Murder of Crows. No eye witnesses have come forward as of yet, but the rumor is his hair had turned completely white, and he had an expression of utter horror writ into his features, with apparently Anze having died of fright.
Description: Black hair roughly chopped short meant to be out of those dull green eyes and out of the way of reaching hands. A dark beard kept close to the face and sometimes cared for. He's tall, over six foot, though not a giant by any means. His body has the sinewy look of someone who has spent most their life outside working rather than playing and with the calloused hands of someone who lives and dies by the blade. On his right arm the tattoos begin at the wrist, intertwining and working up until disappearing somewhere under his shirt.
Personality: Serious and jovial, warrior and jester. Trying to find a way to smile through everything can be hard, but Anze tries. He's a warrior first and foremost, a man of the blade who's no stranger to the harsh lands of the north but he tries to balance that with a lot of smiles and good natured living. When not wielding a blade it's best to not think about what that blade is used for, and so Anze doesn't, leaving that to those times he does have to pick up the blade. And then the smiles stop.
Background: The north is harsh and it quickly forges those who live their to be strong. Anze never had time for the matters of court and intrigue, not that it was exactly a problem in Farhaven. He was focused on the blade and on war. He grew honing those skills, always a year and a step behind his brother Fergus and always trying to catch up. Anze wasn't the sword of the north, but the way he practiced and fought showed that one day he intended to be. Campaign after campaign, raid and duel after duel his skills were honed through blood and sweat.
If there is one thing that can be said though it's that the glory of war quickly fades. No longer does he fear combat, but no longer is he eager for it either. The practicalities and brutalities of martial combat grant one perspective. The singlehanded desire to become the greatest swordsman in the north and thus a peer that could show himself an equal to his elder brother, Prince Fergus the Sword of Farhaven, has become tempered over time. There is still that desire there, smoldering in his heart, but losing friends and family makes one realize perhaps life shouldn't be all about war and every once in awhile we should stop and smell the roses. He still wishes to be great, and worthy of respect equal to Fergus, but he doesn't seek to replace him. It would be enough to be seen as an equal.