Tall and gaunt in a way that reads like a carved reliquary, with long messy white hair that falls past his shoulders and a long split white beard that parts in the center. His robes are worn in layered, threadbare swathes of dull off-white, stained in places with traveling dust and faint scorch marks. A long scarf is wrapped loosely around his neck and shoulders, its ends frayed and knotted with tiny charms: a rusted coin, a scraped bone, a snapped rosary bead. His left cheek and eye-socket are marred by a broad, puckered burn scar of blackened and pinked flesh that makes the left eyebrow irregular and the left ear partially fused. Despite the wound, his eyes are startling: bright icy blue, clear and luminous like chips of glacial glass. He moves with a slow, shuffling grace, often pausing mid-step as if listening to something only he can hear. Unexpectedly, when he laughs the laugh is small and childlike, and he sometimes hums old drinking songs under his breath.