Toke has the solid, newly broadening frame of a young man who has spent years hauling fuel and tending a busy hearth. His skin is ruddy from heat and outdoor work, with soot caught in the creases of his knuckles. His jaw is square and his front teeth are slightly crowded, giving his grin a blunt, wolfish look; when eating, he tears bread with his incisors rather than neatly breaking it. He moves with a forward lean, quick to stand and quicker to cross a room, as if sitting still were a task he has not agreed to. His tunic is a little short in the sleeves and has been let out at the shoulders with mismatched thread. The unexpected thing for a hearth worker is his scrupulous care for a tiny brass sewing needle, kept polished and wrapped in cloth inside his belt: it belonged to someone he refuses to name.

Blunt and brave, but not unfeeling: he will say a hard truth to someone's face, then quietly make sure they have food for the road. He is restless and eager to prove his new strength, yet cautious around anyone who might turn his changed body into a public spectacle. In a crisis he becomes decisive and physically bold; after the danger passes, he can be prickly, embarrassed by concern, and unsettled by impulses and appetites that feel unfamiliar without replacing his old memories.

Toke grew up near the Harz, in a Saxon household where the hearth was the warmest place, the busiest workplace, and the first line of defense against hunger. He learned firewood, mending, and the difficult art of knowing when a silence meant grief rather than anger. He was one of two women in a scattered fellowship of displaced friends. After a supernatural upheaval changed his body, Toke found himself in a young man's body, stronger and more robust, with facial hair, more sweat, and unfamiliar appetites and impulses. The change did not erase his memories or make his former life unreal. He understands himself as a young man now, and uses his Saxon name and male presentation; openly claiming his former identity could invite coercion, punishment, or dangerous religious scrutiny. The change became real to him during a winter flight, when he carried an injured companion farther than he believed he could and then shook with exhaustion beside a dying fire. Since then, he has tried to treat his new strength as a tool, not proof that he owes anyone a different self. The Seven Hearths, a scattered fellowship of displaced friends, are his closest thing to family. He is currently trying to find a safe route for them through settlements wary of strangers, while rumors of a Walpurgis-night gathering draw hunters and priests toward the Harz.