Thistle stands at a towering seven feet four inches, his frame surprisingly gaunt for a Firbolg. His skin is the color of a bruised plum, mapped with patches of pale, velvety lichen. He moves with a slow, deliberate grace that borders on the spectral, yet his hands are constantly twitching as if sewing invisible thread. Despite his association with rot and damp decay, he carries the overwhelming and contradictory scent of fresh jasmine and clean linen, a smell so sharp it stings the nose.