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Syng… What a strange name. Why would one choose to go by “sing”? Of course, the answer is it’s a lesser degree of strangeness than calling himself Wind of the Jade Star. In his native tongue, he would be known as Feng Yu Xing or Fung Juk Sing, depending on what province you hail from, for Yuxing is an Asiatic banded linsang, and his bloodline mirrors his name.

He appears in his mid 20's, but age can be a tricky thing with those hailing from the Far East. His compact height of 5'7" and his svelte frame occasionally gets him mistaken for the fairer sex at a distance. Perhaps his graceful and balanced movement acquired from martial arts in the past, along with the way he wears his lengthy raven and silver hair contributes to that stereotype.

He doesn’t look particularly threatening, even bookish perhaps. A finger pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his muzzle so he can better gaze out of chatoyant brown eyes skirted by an outline of black fur tracing his eyes like subtle winged sketches. He tilts his head slightly, forming the faintest of smiles at the corner of his lips but his eyes remain unreadable. Those that have the patience or tenacity to pierce through a seemingly callous indifference and sarcasm will come to discover it a byproduct of introversion to disengage from a noisy world. He is fiercely loyal to friends he cherishes dearly, preferring intimate engagements over extravagant excess. A conversation will rarely be initiated by him as he prefers being an attentive observer, but he is quite capable of engaging in lively conversation and exchanging witty and festive abuse.

There exists an interesting duality between determined focus and detachment from his surroundings, though his situational awareness is always honed. He appreciates imbibing fine spirits in moderation and will find any excuse to get his hands dirty with mechanical contraptions, especially firearms. Apparatuses are simple to understand and fix; people are unpredictable. A dire addiction for coffee and teas is a most enjoyable delivery method of caffeine and affords the luxury of surviving irregular sleeping patterns.

He splays slender fingers, arching them gracefully and extends claws, scratching an itch nagging his side. His long striped tail seems to hover effortlessly just above the ground, swishing and undulating languidly. He seems rather fond of a few embellishments that tend to follow him daily, regardless of wardrobe--jacquard silk sleeve garters that adorn his arms, equestrian half-chaps that hug his shins, a distinctive Chinese jade Bagua talisman graces his right ankle and an archer’s bracer hugging his left forearm. Under that calm veneer stirs a repository of skills and abilities unbecoming of a civilized society. Thankfully, those drastic displays are rarely called upon as Syng never finds himself engaging in the youthful bravado and boasting that often tends to lead to escalation of violence. A bruised ego heals faster than bruised ribs.

He lets out an absent yawn, his tongue curling and displaying a curious blue splotch. His incisors aren’t quite menacing, but notably carnivorous. He goes back to the marked page, picking up where he left off in some book while sipping some steaming brew out of a small cup. Someone raises his attention with a casual greeting. He smiles and nods in response, setting down the book and extending a hand as a gesture of good will while rising out of his seat, introducing himself.

“Yes, I’m Syng; I didn’t catch your name?"