Tall and skinny, Novoptolomeo bears the marks of his profession. For despite his handsome features, the tell-tale scars of frequent encounters with Nature's wrath peak out tantalizingly from the edges of his travel-flattened collar and from beneath the edges of his well-worn cuffs. Burn scars hidden just beneath the veneer.  He keeps his hair (green and streaked with premature white) long and unruly. (Too much time staring into the wind...). The white streaks are an oddity, admittedly, but Novoptolomeo accepts them as souvenirs of his time in the field for the Cabal Meteorologica.

He is almost never seen without his travel coat, a heavy leather riding coat split at the tails, dyed in natural shades of green and blue. It too has seen the Lightning and has returned scarred and worse the wear.

In quiet moments, or when the Stress just becomes too much to bear, Novoptolomeo puffs on a long, ornate pipe, often losing himself in the smoke, his golden eyes closed to the brilliance of the outside world. At other times, he leans on his travel-worn staff, holding himself up against the travails of his profession; it too has felt the wrath: black veins of char crack its sturdy wooden surface.

He travels athwart his faithful greymane, Scamandros, an irascible steed almost as moody as his rider.

Novoptolomeo is fond of numbers and will oft spend his time ticking away on his abacus and scribbling in one of his folios, drumming out forgotten calculations in his head, or etching the invisible equations into the air. It's this slight mania which creates in him a subtle unapproachability that would otherwise make him a much more sociable Cymrilian.