Pib is a broad-shouldered half-orc with a deep, ugly axe scar cleaving the center of his face, pulling one lip and distorting his speech. One tusk is chipped, his nose sits crooked, and his heavy brow makes him look perpetually wary. He wears practical soldier's gear, usually kept clean out of habit, with an old military bearing that clashes with his obvious approachability. His eyes are soft and attentive, often watching before he speaks, as if he is always trying to make sure he will not be misunderstood.

Quiet, steadfast, and unexpectedly gentle, Pib is the kind of man who looks like trouble and behaves like a caretaker. He is not clever, and he knows it, so he listens more than he talks. He is patient with the frightened, suspicious of the cruel, and stubbornly determined to be useful wherever he goes.

Pib was born to no grand war chant and no heroic prophecy, only to the hard, blunt world that gives half-orcs more fists than futures. In his youth he was considered dull, slow to catch on, and even slower to speak, but his hands learned the language of steel faster than his mind learned the language of people. When he was old enough, he was taken into a soldier's life, where orders were simpler than feelings and a shield wall cared less about cleverness than about whether a man held the line. The scar that split his face came during a chaotic battle that ended with him pulling two wounded recruits out of the mud while the fighting still raged around them. An axe caught him square across the face, and though he survived, the wound left him with a broken voice and a permanent, intimidating look. Many now mistake him for cruel or stupid at first glance, which usually saddens him more than it angers him. Pib has since left the army behind, but he still carries its habits, its discipline, and its loyalty. He travels now with the simple belief that if someone is in front of him and needs help, then he ought to help them, even if he has to point, grunt, and squint to make himself understood.