Known colloquially as ‘Boots’ around Bree-land, he is a man broad of trunk and limb - firmly rooted, and bent ever so slightly by the prevailing winds of toil and time. A tree of a man, indeed: his shoulders heavy and square like the boughs of an old elm, his gait carrying the slow, unshakable weight of his lumbering feet. A man who never seemed to hurry - nor, perhaps, ever needed to. His arms, corded with brutish strength, speak of years spent hauling game and pulling snares beneath the open sky.

The grizzled man appears weather-beaten, as though many a storm has passed over him and left him unmoved. His wild beard and tangled raven-black hair resemble the draping of a willow, framing bright blue eyes that glimmer like shards of stars through the canopy.

He seems to belong more to the wilds than to any village or town. Even his voice carries the weight and depth of the woods he calls home. His garments - a patchwork of deerskin and rawhide - bear the scent of loam and rain-soaked earth. A man shaped by the wilderness, in appearance and in soul.