This human does not look to be much older than thirty, and yet he has the worn expression of an old rogue grown tired of his tricks. Spoiled youth is a terrible thing, and yet the man does not appear dour, bitter, or lost.

Certainly of the roguish kind, that much is clear with one look. He has the acquiline features, sun-kissed skin and perpetual facial hair of an outdoorsy type, and the expressive smirk-prone lips and twinkling gaze of one not unfamiliar with causing trouble. He has a cool confidence about him, his voice accented -- to those who may recognise it -- in the rough and rural, yet romantic lilt of the Moonshae Isles.

He seems common enough, though his eyes are an eery ice-white and are blessed with a faint glow. Where blades and pouches would normally be seen upon the man's belt, ornate trinkets now reside instead. Any attempts to determine his nature or race would find that, despite these oddities, Grayson is most assuredly human.

Somehow those odd eyes -- and odd eyes are not a rarity in these parts -- maintain their comely sense of intrigue and danger, and seem as dark as they are bright.