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Broad of chest and thick through the shoulders, he carries the weight of his armor with the ease of someone long accustomed to it. Though shorter than most, there’s nothing diminished about his presence. A tangle of salt-and-pepper hair spills from beneath a sleek, close-fitting helm that guards his brow and jaw without obstructing his face. His beard is trimmed to match—neat but not fussy—and a faint, knowing smirk often plays at the corners of his mouth, as if he’s already a step ahead of whatever’s about to happen.
Behind the soft, crackling glow of his mask, pale, pearlescent eyes seem to pass through more than they land upon.
His armor is built from thick, dark wolf hide, cured and reinforced until it moves like plated leather but carries the weight of something far more stubborn. The surface is worn smooth in places, matte in others, hinting at countless hours in the field. Set in the center of the breastplate, a single golden crystal glistens, rust-red flecks pervading its depths and lending it an aura of ominous diligence.
A thick white towel, oddly pristine for all its absurdity, drapes across his back like a standard—its embroidered command, “Don’t Panic,” plainly visible.
Two amulets rest against his chest, one dull with time, the other pulsing with a light too bright to stare at directly. A narrow book is strapped to his belt like a soldier’s manual, the corners softened from frequent use. His gauntlets are finely crafted, each joint etched with faintly glowing runes, and his boots are heavy, dark, and built for endurance—made for roads that never quite end.
In his right hand, he carries a heavy, masterfully forged blade—broad, slightly curved, and too finely crafted to be anything but the work of a true artisan. The guard is shaped in the likeness of a snarling bear’s maw, and faint etchings along the fuller suggest claw marks worn smooth by time and use. Near the hilt, the name Ursula is engraved in sharp, precise script—simple, but deliberate. In the left hand, a radiant shield shines with the kind of light that doesn’t flicker, casting sharp-edged shadows even in daylight. Its polished surface gleams like burnished silver, untouched by time or tarnish. There are no marks of forge or sigil—just the steady brilliance of something built to endure, and to be seen.
Rings—one plain wood, one softly luminous—rest on thick fingers, their meaning unclear but kept close.
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