This man is clearly in the dying years, perhaps months, of his vigorous twenties. Faint lines crease his brow and crows feet, fainter still, decorate the corners of his eyes. These imperfections are perhaps unremarkable, though, when set against the battlescars that he bears with neither pride nor shame. Obviously no stranger to the battlefield - and battlefields absent the plentiful restorative magics of mighty priests and alchemists - he wears a blue tabard emblazoned with a resplendant golden hawk, clutching a silver sword in its right claw.

It would be dreary to consider his thirty-odd years old, though, and despite the length and breadth of the world that the man has witnessed in his short years, he seems to have an affable joi de vivre buried beneath his gruff exterior. He is handsome, too, with a noble bearing and acquiline features built upon a chiseled jawline leading inwards to a slender chin. His facial hair is thick and of the same brown as his flowing hair, though he keeps it cropped neatly - it serves to break up his chiseled sense of handsomeness with a ruggedness to match his battle-scars.