Boris is a stocky man with unkempt sandy-brown hair that sticks out unevenly, as if half-heartedly brushed days ago. His face is perpetually flushed with embarrassment or heat, dotted with a stubby, patchy beard that he neglects more often than not. He wears a motley ensemble of armor pieces—rusted breastplate patched awkwardly with a cracked leather jerkin, muddied iron pauldrons mismatched in shape and size, and a tarnished iron helmet ill-fitting atop his head. His boots look like farm clogs, scuffed and worn, yet he somehow shuffles with a deliberate slowness, as if each step costs him a mental toll. Despite his crude and haphazard look, under his grimy exterior is an expression that flickers between fear and guilt, especially when being addressed directly. An unexpected quirk: a tiny wooden carving of a rabbit dangles from his belt, worn smooth from nervous fiddling.