The man before you is well over six feet tall and powerfully built.  He wears his armor with the ease of decades, though he cannot be more than forty.  The armor itself is of no note, a simple suit of scale mail, well kept with the dents all beaten out of it.

His sword, though, is masterwork.  A shimmering mithril hilt bound in black leather ends with a simple eagle's head.  The crossguard is thick and wide to match the base of the blade, which is also wide at the hilt.  The blade narrows some in the middle, then flares back out slightly at the other end before coming back together at the point.  The sword is longer than the man is tall.  The blade is also mithril.

Extended observation reveals a quiet, contemplative man of few, polite words.  Though he looks like someone who would survive most fights, there is an aire of service and humility about him as well.  He looks people in the eye in an honest way, without challenge.

He is seeking something, an end to a quest, or an answer to a great question, in his demeanor.  There is a remnant of sadness, too, fading like the last drizzle of a tempest that is now over.