Jebidiah carries the rough-hewn visage of a man who's spent more nights under the stars than beneath a roof. His sun-weathered face is craggy and lined, a lived map of a dozen harsh winters and long dusty summers. A thick, scruffy beard streaked with premature gray covers his jaw, trimmed unevenly as if by some impatient hand. His deliberate, steady movements contrast with the sharp glinting intensity of his blue-gray eyes. He wears a worn brown duster coat with faint scorch marks near the hem, beneath which a faded indigo shirt and patched leather vest peek out. Around his neck hangs a delicate silver locket—an elegant, almost out-of-place trinket that he touches unconsciously when uneasy. Jebidiah walks with the slow, measured gait of a man who’s seen too much yet remains watchful, his boots kicking up dust with every step but never hurried. The unexpected contradiction is his hands—nimble and deft despite their rough appearance—capable of delicate work as much as lethal precision.