The scruffy Silesian stood just shy of six feet though appeared somewhat shorter due to his often lazy posture which gave him the air of a starving wolf. All unruly hair and feral eyes, Markolf was hard pressed to release the tension in his expression which made him seem like the type of man who spoke more easily among trusted friends.

The scent he carried was unmistakenly that of sweat, smoke, and leather; odors common to those who spent much time on the road and by nocturnal campfires. The harness he wore looked like the sort that a hunter or soldier would wear over a breastplate, and the state of it made it clear that it'd seen many years of use.

In spite of the undignifying signs of a hired thug's wandering days, Markolf sported the strong physique which came with a life of exertion and battle, and chances were he might even know how to use the battered old long-sword which dangled from his belt.