Broad-shouldered, and a standing a hair over six foot, the man was quickly approaching middle-age, if the grey touching his blood-wine red mane and beard, and the wrinkles around his eyes were any hint.  Skin weathered by the elements and age in equal measure, and marked by the lingering reminders of a small host of attempts upon his life, spoke of a martial profession - should the armor and blade he carried not be hint enough.

The reek of cheap spirits seemed to follow the mercenary, no matter where he went, while the battle-scarred armor, unpolished and often still stained by his last fight, leant the impression that he wasn't the finest of his trade.