Compact and stalwart, Thyrr moves like a pebble down a stream—steady, inevitable. His cheeks are rounded, lined with laugh-creased grooves; the skin of his hands is perpetually caked with fine loam and silvering clay embedded like harmless barnacles. He favors a heavy, moss-barked staff grown and grafted from three species of oak and tunneled through with a vein of riverstone that glows faintly when portals hum. Thyrr's boots are patched hide, rimmed with copper washers used to tune the stabilizers, and his cloak is a quilt of root-fiber and woven burdock leaves that sheds rain and soil alike. Unexpectedly, his left ear is pierced with a single polished marble—an heirloom from a childhood friend who once drowned in a sinkhole; Thyrr touches it when he prays. In motion he gives the impression of being part of the ground itself; when he stands still, you feel the ground has been slightly rearranged to accommodate him.