Forty years old, big through the chest and shoulders, with a shaven skull weathered raw across the cheekbones and a nose broken more than once and never properly set. His beard is dark and thick to his chest, only just beginning to grey. Pale cold blue eyes that most people find difficult to meet greet you when you see him. He wears a white wolf-pelt across both shoulders his own kill, taken with a blade of his own making over worn chainmail and a great two-handed axe is always strapped across his back or in his hands. He goes bare-headed in weather that drives other men indoors, without ever seeming to notice. He does not lie: not by fabrication, not by omission, not by the small courtesies that keep a room comfortable, and if he thinks you a coward he will say so to your face and think no worse of you once you've heard it. For all that, he is warmer than he looks, he drinks, he laughs too loud, and he is genuinely gentle with people who have nothing, because he draws a careful line between weak and poor, between weak and frightened. What he has no patience for is the man who lets someone else be taken in his place. And he does not step back. Not from a fight, not from a challenge, not from a door that something is coming through.