A young adult man with brown hair and brown eyes, his pale complexion altered by the accident into opaque, light-green skin through which the outlines of muscle and bone are visible. His wide jaw and blunt, slightly translucent teeth show whenever he laughs or chews. He smells faintly of mint salve, damp stone, and the sharp herbal tang of his work, though he rarely notices. His ornate blue-and-gold apprentice robes and pointed hat are carefully kept for formal occasions; most days he wears patched workman's clothes and a stained apron.

Patient, conscientious, and quietly funny, he prefers solving problems with a measured question and a well-made salve. He is warm with children and animals, but stiff around prestigious mages, especially those who remind him of his former master.

The family had been settled in Lokood for generations, respectable and comfortable without being grand. Its brightest name was Great-Uncle Rorris, a celebrated war mage whose old service portraits still hung in the family parlor. His reputation helped secure the young man an apprenticeship with a famous mage. He was diligent, clever with mixtures, and especially good at the unglamorous work of labeling reagents and keeping a laboratory from becoming a hazard. Then came the accident. A containment ward failed during a practical demonstration, and a caustic, living magical compound splashed across him. He survived, but his skin turned opaque light green, and his body took on the unsettling, translucent look of a creature made partly of slime. The master said he was being released for safety reasons. He has never been sure whether that was the whole truth. He now earns what he can with odd jobs, potions, and salves, supporting his wife and three children. His old robes are still his best clothes, and his spellbook is both the proof of his training and the one thing he refuses to pawn.