Thorn Warchuck is a mass of contradictions wrapped in a rough-hewn exterior. His skin, a mottled gray-green, is weathered like sun-bleached leather, conveying a life worn but not deflated. His hair, a shock of tangled black, defies any attempt at taming, falling over a broad brow that arches above distinctly intelligent hazel eyes, too sharp for someone in his line of work. His height is imposing, but softened by a noticeable paunch that speaks of one too many hours spent with tankard in hand rather than sword.