Though he abhors exercise in all its forms, clambouring over hill and dale in pursuit of quarry has made him exceedingly fit and healthy, despite a fondness for his dinner plate that has earned him a build mostly kindly described as stocky.

Having no particular scholastic aptitude, Chufnebt is fortunate that those mysteries which befuddle the most diligent student of the Arts seem to come naturally to him.  He wields magic as if born to it ... which as the latest in a long line of Sorcerers, is perhaps only to be expected.

Indeed, that legacy handed down by his redoubtable ancestors has blessed him with the Faustimagus tendency towards premature greyness, and Chufnebt sported a fine head of white hair by the tender age of thirty winters.

His features are weathered from his outdoorsy existence, and his skin is tanned and wrinkled, aged like the fine leather of the old satchel that is always at his side.  Though he'll never be described as a handsome cove, at least his rough manner is endearing and he makes friends easily, though at times his enthusiasm and casual disregard of danger can be truly terrifying.

Clad in sturdy boots, a leather skirt, shirt and leather jacket and wrapped in a thick cloak with his crossbow slung over his shoulder and bolt case and dagger setted on his hip, Chufnebt more resembles the huntsman than the mage, and when he settles his cherished battered helm atop his head, let the foe beware !

I say pray for Chufnebt Faustimagus
As a mage he was sage and courageous
But ne'er acted his age
Ne'er obeyed, often strayed
Salacious, outrageous ... dismayed us !

   - Folfast Balhon (House Musician at the Dragons Den)