This elder is a broken wreck of his self-proclaimed former glory. Centuries ago he was the Michaelite Muse of Sculpture, but now this wretch wanders the slums of the Latin Quarter, feeding on the desperate, the homeless and the bewildered.


Slender, pale, and clad in faded finery, Gallasyn might be considerably more handsome if he looked after himself and smiled instead of sneered. His hair is lank and unkempt and his eyes bloodshot, as if he were suffering from a permanent hangover. Nonetheless he has a certain tragic charm to him.



Dreams at the Crossroads Burnside