Standing nearly 7 feet tall with a broad, muscular frame softened by years of tending bar and brewing, Asterius carries an almost paradoxical grace that mimics the ebb and flow of a river beneath the solid mass of a minotaur's bulk. His tawny fur is mottled with streaks of lighter cream, particularly around his snout and shoulders, marking the passage of time and hardship. His broad, backwards-curving horns are a signature feature, one cracked near the tip from an old brawl, which he often strokes absentmindedly while lost in thought. Blue-ink tattoos of swirling hop vines climb his strong arms and shimmer faintly in firelight, hints of a mystical or personal significance. He sports a neat, trimmed beard tapering into a goatee, an unexpected softness for his kind. His amber-gold eyes glint with mischief and occasional tired pain beneath heavy brows. He moves with playful unpredictability and fluidity, a dance refined and practiced despite his size. His stained leather brewer’s apron hangs over a loose linen shirt with rolled sleeves, and a faint scent of barley, oak, and whiskey clings to him like a second skin.