The ravages of war and time have formed this heavy-set man into a dour sight; his body scar-strewn, his face gouged, the Vandegaard knight is starkly juxtaposed by his regal employers.

A bleak, grey-blue eye regards his surroundings waspishly, the other most often hidden away by a brown, leather eyepatch that looks even more ragged than he does - a scar running through it and down his cheek.
Between his gaze, a slightly broad nose that looks to have likely been broken at least once before, though the set of it is not overly askew, and below that a greying moustache and beard concealing all of his lower jaw, save for his thick bottom lip. Somewhere within that mass of coarse hair would be found a wide, firm jaw and similarly bulky neck.

His body is what might be expected of his age and build; gradually leaning towards portly despite his best efforts, though still the man is steadfastly muscular even if the fat is beginning to pad it out. Similarly his arms are dense and wide, with thick forearms ending in shovel-like hands - the right of which is missing its little finger down to the first knuckle.

And lastly his voice: a gravelly rumble with the inherent commanding tone of one used to passing down orders. The former likely owed to his habitual smoking, the latter due to his status as a veteran of war.