To the casual glance, the young man seems fairly unremarkable.  He is of medium build, perhaps 5'8", and dressed in travellers' clothing appropriate for the chilly North - sturdy breeches, thick wool-lined boots, a hooded sealskin cloak to ward wind and rain alike.  His features mark him as an Ulutiun, one of the inhabitants of the utternorth beyond the Spine of the World, though his face is not quite so flat, his nose not quite as broad, and his torso not quite as stocky, as the norm for that people.  A halfblood, perhaps.  His skin is the hue of rich earth, almost nut-brown; his hair, a much deeper brown, is often found in unruly thatch; and his black-colored eyes are quick and curious.  A metal-shod walking staff is generally in his hands, sometimes slung behind him, angling across his weathered backpack.  A pair of hunting-darts are tucked into a stiff leather holster at his side, but apart from those, and a slim dagger that seems designed for utility rather than battle, he carries no visible weapons.  (Though one supposes that, in case of need, the stout ivory rod hanging from a loop at his belt could be sturdy enough to bash a footpad with.)

Those who travel with Isigar for any length of time - and they are few, for he keeps well off the beaten paths - soon realize there is more to him than the casual glance reveals.  There is something odd about his movements, a queer ponderousness that is a little easier to notice from the corner of one's eye.  It is not that his motions seem heavy; if anything, he moves with preternatural sprightliness.  But there is a sense of... inertia in how he moves, as though there were something massive about his spirit that cannot quite manifest in his earthly form.  That, and a handful of other cues, tip off the shrewder observer that Isigar is one of the planetouched, albeit of what precise type is oddly hard to pinpoint.