The first thing you notice is the mask.

A white fox mask, cracked and weathered, tied to the side of his head with red cord. It does not hide his face completely. One tired, watchful eye remains visible beneath black hair that falls loose around his cheek.

He looks older than the usual sellsword. Not weak. Not slow. Just weathered like a man who has survived too many nights in forests where people are not meant to sleep.

His clothes are layered black robes, travel-worn and frayed at the edges, marked with shrine papers, red bindings, and old charms. A wolf emblem hangs among the details, though he does not speak of it. At his hip is a curved sickle and chain — a kusarigama — its iron weight shaped like a fang. Across his back rests a dark longbow, wrapped in cord and talismans.