You come before a large, lumbering behemoth of a creature. Larger still, even by minotaur standards, the hulking, masculine body shambling before you is all but titanic. The sizeable upper body is supported by two legs which can only be compared to menhirs, putting mighty redwoods to a deficit shame. Such a corpus no doubt servers to endure even the worst of blows if anything is capable of wreaking physical harm without being trampled outright, that is. This one's eyes lazily wander across the vicinity, only pausing for the briefest of moments to allow him a to flash a morbid, toothy grin. Most find minotaurs to be a distasteful detriment to civilization, and for no lack of reason.

Covered by piecemeal leathers and linen, this minotaur's attire is unappealing at best. At worst, the reek of iron and blood, coupled with the occasional rotten trophy,  proves just what an uncouth brute this one's owner is. What is exposed by the outfit is amended by bushes of hair soaked with mud and grime. If the flies were any bigger, they would effectively act as chaff to defend this minotaur against arrows.

The walk, the garments, the attitude all ooze but one fashion statement: It's clobbering time.