Portenticus
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The man (and it does take some time to determine that the figure beneath the collection of crusty robes and encrusted filth, the creature beneath the open sores and rotten teeth is indeed a man) does not inspire the sort of confidence that makes for a good drinking partner, let alone a trusted ally. He is a nervous, thin sort, with the kind of frame that has come close to the brink of starvation many times and the dimly burning eyes of a dire rat or Wailing Death victim. All this comes together to give him a look of tightly stretched, crumbling desperation.
That image is somewhat diluted by the fact that, when the scent of gin overpowers the scent of unwashed flesh on his person, Portenticus can be remarkably jovial. Though his dark tones persist, one might get the impression that another person, a complete person, once existed where this caricature now stands.
His sharp, fractured fingernails are his most prominent feature and he uses their ruined viciousness to great effect. A wild-eyed man with a crooked finger in your direction is a compelling force to many of an introspective bent.
Beggars know that their greatest enemy is not the constable or alleyway thug, but the cold, and therefore few will catch him in a state of less than complete dress. If one manages this feat, they will notice that a serpentine, intricate pattern of markings covers most of his body. Save for his hands, feet, head, and genitals, not a spot of flesh is unmarked. Though the markings appear to be linguistic in nature, no one has yet been able to decipher them and few have an interest in braving drunken biohazards in the pursuit of possibly dead languages. For his part, Portenticus will most often regard any questions on the markings as sexual advances and react accordingly.