Cutting an unimposing figure of less-than-average human height, Gulag is nevertheless built densely with striking features, reminding those with a poetic turn of mind of a craggy, moss-covered boulder, or perhaps a particularly gnarled branch.

Quietly observing the world through eyes like evergreen forests, his breath billows clouds of cold vapor on even the warmest days, and the nut brown skin of his arms is host to many a mobile decoration; tattoos which swoop and storm with arctic tempest.

When abroad, he walks in stride with a great bear, often choosing the solitude of the forests and cold places of the world. His voice, despite his size, is the deep rumble of collapsing glacier, and his words are chosen carefully.