Massive, often mistaken for a small hill when he stands still. His skin is deeply weathered and textured like old bark with long, pale scars that track across his shoulders and forearms from claw and tusk strikes. He moves with the slow, inexorable inevitability of a rooted oak: limbs deliberate and weighty, feet leaving faint prints rimed with moss. His hair is long, dark, and tangled, tied back with a single leather cord; a heavy, untrimmed beard bristles with tiny bits of leaf litter and seed husks. He wears sleeveless leather-and-hide armor reinforced with plates of resin-hardened bark and woven vine. A fur mantle hangs loosely across his shoulders in cold weather and is never worn indoors. He favors bare hands; his knuckles are callused and stained a dull green from years of plant matter. Unexpectedly, he sometimes carries a small, hand-carved wooden whistle shaped like a young sapling, which he uses to call birds and to soothe anxious listeners.