A broad-shouldered half-orc who looks as if the woods have been wearing him down for years and have never quite managed to break him. He dresses in light hermit's layers dyed in moss, lichen, and bark-brown, but over them hangs a dirty, dented plate cuirass that has been scrubbed clean only where hands have touched it most often. The plates are stitched to leather straps and soft cords so they do not rattle in the brush. On his head rests the skull of a horned bull, old and weathered, with the horn tips capped in brass and prayer knots tied through the eye sockets. His flail hangs at his belt beside a bone-handled knife and a pouch of herbs. He moves with the silent caution of a tracker, yet his armored shoulders and the bull skull give him the unsettling look of a shrine come to life, equal parts penitent monk and battlefield brute. The strangest thing about him is how gentle his hands are, as careful as a midwife's, even when the rest of him looks built for splintering doors.