Robelard St-James Senior

The eldest of the St-James clan, the founder, as it was. Of course, this also means hes about a hundred and fifty years older than his two grandsons, Ras and Boa, but he's not some doddering oldster. At least, not from what they've seen of him in when he appears in the Tavern. He himself runs quite a sucessful shipping company, though the time he thinks its in is still the early 1800's. He's also the owner of a large plantation, and is quite the consumate man, of course.

He has figured out that the tavern is a locus of time and space, most recently, and it has given him a few insights into the abilities such a place would confer... such as being able to at least view the past. Which he has done. And it has given him a few insights that haven't exactly been all that flattering to time.

Women. He loves to study them.

Ships. He loves to design and talk about them.

Firearms. Finds them intruiging and deadly.

Swordplay. Loves to fence.

Starting at his boots, this man was evidentially well off. They were made of a fine, tooled leather, dyed a rich, deep nut brown, a single strap running over the top of the foot on each. The breeches he wore were tucked into the top of his tall, stiff boots, neatly folded and tucked away. Strong legs were evident, the trousers snugged tight against his hips, cut just for him. His shirt was of the long-sleeved variety, silken, but of a pale eggshell white color, the sleeves drawn along his arms to the cuffs fastened with a simple brass or gold button on each sleeve. The vest he wore over it was of fine fabric, tight to his chest and the tartan pattern that marched across it a simple combination of white and black in alternating stripes. A gold chain ran into one pocket of the vest, likely presaging a pocket watch. The overcoat he wore unfastened, and it was of a more serviceable, rugged design, of leather and cloth combined and fasteners made of definitive bronze, the whole affair easily knee length when closed. Pinned at the collar of his jacket was a gold anchor crossed with a sword of silver, perhaps two inches tall.

 Of course, all of this finery and frippery encased the six foot tall lapine well, the whole suit tailored to his toned body. He was no body-builder, that was for sure, but he carried himself with the confidence in his ability to endure or outlast whatever feat of strength came his way. His dark fur was uniform from the tops of his long ears to the soles of his feet, but all of it was immaculately groomed. His hair was unusually done for someone of his caliber, for it was done in hundreds of small braids that were pulled back from his face and gathered behind him into a tight pony tail. A not altogether unpleasant looking style. Topping it all off was a tricorn hat, well worn and well maintained. His pale blue-green eyes would stare out of his lapine face, and a slow smile would cross his lips, for a moment.