Rippling muscle and demanding presence, all old promises of strength and rusted chainmail. The seneschal is tall and large, thick and heavy with brawn and covered in promises that his long life has been one spent in constant combat. He commandeers space with a bored, indifferent air, and walks like a military man - back straight, eye forward.

Lacking that other eye doesn't help the fact that he barely emotes; and when he does, it just looks awkward - his scowls are much more handsome than his smiles. Thick and ugly scars warp his fur, wrinkled most heavily over the right of his face, where his empty socket sits. He's scowling twenty-four seven, and eye contact is rare.

In all elements other than his size and stature, he's rather plain looking, sporting a brown and grey coat rarely groomed, with age weathering every point.