Name
Sylas "Lass" Swynford

Gender
Female

Appearance
Her hair is short and black. It's cut into an uneven bob with the left side longer than the right. It was originally unevenly cut due to Sylas' first time cutting their hair themselves and she eventually kept it as a design choice. She has light brown eyes and various smaller scars from cuts that never properly healed across her body. She also has a burn mark on her shoulder, a successful attempt at stoping the eldritch infection.

Personality
Despite being a woman, she's not really a lady. She has crude humor, often used more frequantly when she's comfortable. Though naturally distrustful of others, she has grown attached to her hunting group.

History
A Post slum orphan

Strengths/Weaknesses
Undecided

Other
Sylas is not her real name, but she took on a different name because she decided her old name was too feminine for this job. Despite picking a more masculine name, she's stuck with the nickname "Lass," much to her annoyance.

Somehow, Meridian made cheap alcohol taste well, even if it came from a dingy tavern and a chipped wooden mug. It was probably the sun. You couldn’t see the sun anywhere else in Kadath, except Ante but those smug pricks would die before sharing anything. It was either the sun or Geralt’s hairy buttocks mooning them as he pranced around on top of the table which was creaking and threatening to crumble under the weight. The rest of her rag-tag group laughed.

“You’re so fucking gross, no one wants to see that,” Sylas barked through laughter before kicking him in the shin, causing Geralt to lose balance and stumble back into his seat. She grabbed his pants and threw it at his face, “Cover up, dickhead.”

Alcohol was the worst on Geralt. He was not only the youngest, but lanky and having more bone than meat on you would make even the most distilled alcohol effective. Usually, he’d burst out into song or tears — the group often made bets on which one it’d be. No one expected him to blindly agree to arandom voice across the tavern shouting “take off your pants!” but no one also tried to stop Geralt. It was going to be too funny to tell him later, especially how to make an idiot of himself in front of his lady-crush, the tavernkeeper's daughter.

“Alright, pay up,” Tamar, the group’s leader, grunted through his last sips before slamming his empty mug down. “Y’all lost the bet. Don’t tell me ‘yer chickenin’ out now.”

Sylas grumbled a bit before sliding a singular Sanguine out. The blood-red crystal glittered for a moment before Tamar collected his earnings with one fell armstroke across the roundtable with a triumphant chuckle. “You rigged it,” she accused. “What’re the chances it went down exactly like you said?”

“And you sound like a jealous bitch I got on lady luck’s good side.”

“Stop fight.. Fightin’, Lass. ‘Thought we were all friensh,” Geralt slurred his words as he rested his head on the table with his eyes half closed.

“You-” she shoved his shoulder, earning a groan of protest before falling fully unconscious “-don’t get to talk. Lost my earnings because of you.” She leaned back into her seat with a heavy creak. “What’re you gonna do with all that money anyways? Shiny sword? New armor? An all-you-can-eat feast?”

“Nah, gonna save it up. Gonna get us out of this hellhole one day. Maybe afford a nice house in the countryside. Prob’bly Mer’dian.”

“Shit, now I feel like a bad person for thinking I was gonna join those Ante bastards and make you all my personal servants.”