An anchor of white thread adorned by seven stars, woven skilfully upon a leather jerkin. An aged man, yet surprisingly fit in body, from the southern lands at a glance, for white his beard and hair bound in a mariner's tail, yet tanned his complexions from labouring years beneath the un-shaded sun. Upon his brow a sailors hat, feathered thrice and one more for comfort.

His surcoat raven black in the colours of the nation he once served in bygone days. The sleeves rolled up giving way to his bare arms covered entirely in ink; Runes of the elvish kind, some artistry of Westerness origins and yet many most likely of further shores.

A soldier in appearance is he, those whom have seen the vanguard in their years of service. Though cold of heart he might not be, for a kind smile is never far away.