Grigs is a walking tome of what a hard life can do to ones physical appearance. A nose bent crooked from a break that never healed right, a twisted grin sneering up from his throat, and empty space where a ring finger used to be on his left hand are but a few of the verses showing. His mug has scruff from a lack of shaving on a regular basis and his scalp mimics this lack of effort in a rather haphazard tussle of messy dull black hair. Strapped down to his skull is a strip of tailored leather which cuts roughly across his head to cover his right eye in the form of a crude patch with a deep river of a scar peaking out from under the cover; while his remaining eye is a  jaundiced hazel clutched deeply into the socket. Under his heavy jaw would be a lopsided smile etched into his flesh from a crude blade, but the smirk is probably in testament to the fact it's owner is still breathing with it. What's left is a rather limber individual he stands about six foot two and around a hundred and seventy pounds. To be precise he's rather gangly. Despite the lack of flesh there is ink set to it though it seems to be more official then art. His left shoulder bears a rather random string of six numbers with honestly no really rhyme or reason to their string.