Yellow eyes gaze calculatingly at you over a scarred, walnut muzzle, and half-torn ears swivel in your direction. The man/canine hybrid cuts a stocky, barbaric figure; dressed in belts and random patches of armour, he'd present himself much in the manner of an arena gladiator.
Despite his bearing - one of a well-muscled idiot, swinging a similarly blunt instrument at the behest of whatever Lord or Lady uncaged him - Titus speaks in soft, bassy tones, putting one in mind of a jaguar with a mouthful of chocolate hiding in a cello. Muscles move beneath his lightly furred skin like oiled cretins wrestling in a mud bath, his gait firm and steady.
He carries an air of one untroubled by much, and unwilling to hurry for less. The parts of his body hidden beneath his rather ecclectic wardrobe are similarly scarred and marked to indicate a penchant for disagreements.