Hedrik Grimtistel is a broad-shouldered human man in late middle age, weathered by long winters, poor roads, and years spent listening to frightened people lie politely. His face is lined but meticulously cared for, with a full steel-grey mustache combed into two firm arcs and pronounced mutton chop sideburns that frame his cheeks like old heraldic brackets. His thick, slightly wavy hair falls to his shoulders and is gathered into a restrained ponytail tied with black waxed cord. His skin is ruddy across the nose and cheekbones, while his hands are surprisingly soft except for a pale, puckered scar across the left palm. He moves with deliberate economy, planting his iron-tipped cane only when he wants the room to notice a pause. His clothes suggest dignity, but his boots are muddy, cracked, and repaired with bright red thread. The unexpected impression is that beneath the solemn old-world statesman is a man who looks one bad joke away from laughing.