Name: Jassin Tallis
Physical Description: Jassin looks... normal. There's nothing terribly identifying about him, and out of a crowd of normal folk in Marn he would look like any other. He has the thick, bronzed arms of a man who has worked hard all his life, and the lines on his face tell no different a story. There are scraps of food and a whiff of ale about his thick, uncropped beard, and his shaggy hair constantly drips with the oppressive, sweating heat of the alehouse he works. His few shirts are well-worn but kept clean as he can clean them, a luxury that he's rather proud of in this age of uncertainty he and his inhabit.
The man is fond of clean fabric and good warm beer, two facts that stand at odds to each other, and show themselves in his lye-bleached clothes that are so often stained golden brown with good, common stout. The man exudes a wholesome, if equally common air, and there's nothing about him that suggests he'd ever aspire to anything greater than owning the respectable public house he does.
Possessions: Jassin owns an ale-house of meager but workable size, with an upstairs bedroom and a stewpot that he spends half the damn day cleaning. It's expensive to run, but the demand for alcohol has seen him through many a cold winter. He also owns the contents of that house - firewood, food and ale to feed a small army for a day. Of course, he never feeds a small army, even in a place as crawling with blades as Marn, but nonetheless supplies are good to have. Jassin is not a rich man, but he is grateful for what he has.
He also owns a pair of boots that he keeps obsessively clean whenever he wears them out of the bar, two good cleaning cloths that are as stiff with woodrub as the chairs he keeps them with, and a sword that an old man left at the bar ten years back. Not wanting to let the blade bring anyone to harm, he keeps it between the slats of his bedframe until the day that man should ever return.
Powers or Strengths: Jassin is strong - as strong as any man, and certainly not easy to topple. A life with alcohol and a way with money has made him strong in moderation, and he can hold his liquor, and knows exactly how much liquor he can hold.
The great bear's deep-lined face hides a powerful affinity to mathematics, which he has failed to hone, but nonetheless anyone who frequents his bar will tell you that he keeps an eerily low amount of documentation on the contents of his purse, and yet somehow nobody's ever taken from it and left unmarked.
Weaknesses and Flaws: Jassin's greatest weakness is his old age. Coming to the twilight of his life, he is strong but his bones creak in the cold, his joints ache as he polishes the same countertops every day. His eyes are filled with the stars of stranger skies and sometimes he wonders what would've happened if he'd left like his father did.
Of course, parent-figure issues can't scar a man forever, but nonetheless he is a lonely and regretful old man and he is always looking out the door of that tavern he keeps. He isn't so good with interaction, even if he is a passingly friendly man and doesn't strike anyone as anything but companionable, and isn't so good with making friends.
He's hard to topple, but once he falls over he finds it hard to get up, physically and mentally. He has arthritis and all the little pocks and scars of a lifetime lived. He distances himself from emotions a lot, until he's discerned whether or not the object of emotion is leading him on a flight of fancy or if he is right to feel as he does. As such, he doesn't often use words such as 'hate' or 'love' lightly. His literal take on language can confuse people, and lead him to be confused by people.
History: Jassin was born to Alan and Mary Tallis, a farmer who lost his farm and a whore he married out of a misplaced, bumpkinlike sense of honor when he got her with child one drunken night. Brought up with the cold and the warm of the city alike, Jassin was always familiar with the magical and the technological, finding magelights and electrical lights alike blase and boring. His childhood was filled with his father's words on the dependability of old things - take care of your boots, watch the firewood, and mind that you don't touch any machine that hasn't been working for more than a year. Ye'll never know, son, his father would tell him, whether gnomes have nae bedevilled it. The three of them lived with his three other siblings in close proximity to the factory his father worked, churning out what little amount of furniture the small industry could. They had food - barely - and yet Jassin has never forgotten what it was like to go hungry.
He was no stranger to death as well, living on the line between poverty and one's livelihood that so many of the citizens of Marn inhabited, seeing one winter claim the life of his brother, and one the life of his sister, leaving him with his twin, Margaret, by the time he was fifteen. His father, ever the honorable one, raised them both to the best of his ability, but when that winter ended he had had enough. The old farmer, who had always taught Jassin to carry himself wherever his feet would take him in search of whatever he thought was worth finding, followed his own advice, and set out to find a way back into his old trade - farming. Jassin was asleep when Alan Tallis left, on the first warm night of the spring. He never saw his father again.
To wake up and be the man of the house was no small burden on Jassin, but he had the support of his twin sister, and his mother kept them in clothes by the working of her old talents, something Jassin didn't know about until years later. Nonetheless, he always marked when his mother came home missing a tooth. They struggled on for years in a tiny apartment above an alehouse, and Jassin himself sank into the same way of life that his father and so many others in Marn had - he became a part of the productive machine of the city, a labourer, and working at a singularly unlucky labour. The folks that ran the alehouse didn't begrudge a desperate man-child that would save them the trouble of one more trip shifting the many amenities that it took to run a tavern, a boy that would walk for miles in the street to shift backbreaking loads for enough pennies to keep the lights on.
But nonetheless, he stuck at it, and sooner or later the people that ran that bar simply... rotated out. They died, they left, they dissipated, and for the last twenty-three years the boy Jassin has grown into an old, weathered man, nursed his mother through her death in her old age of pneumonia, saved his sister from the brothels by giving her work in the bar he came into possession of, and he has grown from Jassin the beggar-boy into Tallis the barkeep. And the locals for streets around know and love him and his ready taps and tankards.
The stories he's collected working that bar are another thing entirely from the man himself, but there are two that affect him still - the story of the urchin boy that is his only employee besides his sister, and the story of the blade that lives under his bed. In time, perhaps, he may tell them.