Agador Ottvoff stands straight, his chest puffed out in self-importance.  He wears all leathers and a blue cloth tabard which drapes over his torso, simply decorated with a white shield and cross.  In his hand he holds a staff, a short knife rests on his hip.  On his back is a small backpack.

Agador looks at you briefly, his eyes cold and calculating.  In just a moment, he will sum up the whole of your existence into a single question.  'Are you of any use?'