A mud caked full plate that still bears careful maintenance where it matters. The breastplate is stamped with a crossed sword and axe, the sigil of Volkmar, darkened in the creases where rain and dirt collect. Straps cinch a mud stained bearskin cloak at his shoulders so the fur flaps wetly in the wind. His greatsword, slung across his back, is finely made; its pommel holds a perfectly shaped turquoise stone that seems faintly luminous in rain. The cross guard bears a tiny icon of a bear on its hind legs. When he removes his helmet shoulder length charcoal gray hair spills out, stringy and pulled damp against his neck. He moves carefully, each movement practiced, but there is a patent impatience in the set of his jaw. The contradiction: though he rides in heavy, war-worn armor he prefers to keep his helmet unadorned and plain, a deliberate refusal of pageantry that confuses peasants who expect a knight to shine. He wipes rain from his face with sheepskin gloves, revealing an ashen complexion, a well maintained beard, and a white scar running from his right eyebrow to his jaw, a pale ledger of a near-fatal wound. Closer inspection reveals irises with a faint red tint that is unsettling but not outright supernatural.