"My work may be garbage but it's good garbage." Mickey Spillane
The big lycan stood six foot five inches and weighed two fifty; yet despite his one hundred and seventeen years of age, Todd Sinclair was still mostly muscle and rock hard. His bright red hair was as much a Sinclair trait as was his size. Family legend held that the Sinclairs could trace their lineage all the way back for thousands of years to a hero of the first godwar – a mon who was regarded by most as little more than a myth – Aristotle Sinclair. Kynyr had never disparaged Todd’s claims, although the older he got, the more it seemed like humoring the man.
Todd left the mat, turned and bowed to it in a conspicuously Creeyan manner, before gesturing at the table and chairs on the far side of the room. The old mon had trained in the Creeyan and Sharani forms as well as the lycan arts. He had trained his children and his grandchildren with a mix of discipline and patience like an iron hand in a velvet glove. As a result of that, Todd and Cahira’s huge extended family was the closest thing to a Battle-Clan that the village of Longbranch had.
Todd Sinclair had a strong, hearty face. The folded lines running from the wings of his nostrils to the outer edges of his lips were deep; the crinkles around his dark blue eyes were crevices in the stalwart earthiness of his features; his heavy eyelids did not lend themselves to clear expression of emotion, making any effort to read his features difficult even for those who knew him well. His calm, centered mien suggested a mon who did not go looking for trouble, but once it found him would be utterly relentless in dealing with it.