Prospero is an elderly human fellow—probably nearing his seventh decade by the look of him—with kindly features defined by the wrinkles of heavy thought and many smiles. His hair and beard are full and completely white, long enough to tuck under his wide belt if he chose, and his nose is regal. The old man's eyes are lively in stark contrast with his apparent age, sparkling with interest and keen with intelligence.

His voice matches the image created by scholarly robes, by the broad-brimmed hat with the drooping peak and the gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles: Worn as the cover of a book that has been read many times, soft as a fleece but sturdy as a thunderclap, the practiced tones of an orator. Prospero's laugh is somewhat dusty, but it is the dust of a sunbeam through a library window, not the dust of disuse. He is never without his pipe—a fine darkwood affair covered in intricate carvings—which one might surmise contributes to the rustiness of his throat, but his teeth are surprisingly white, and he exhibits none of the shortness of breath which eventually comes to many smokers of pipeweed.

The wizard wears a long, trailing scarf of many colors, its edges decorated by knitted tassels. The strap of his battered leather satchel rests diagonally across his breast, beneath the waterfall of his beard, balanced on the opposite hip by a plain, sheathed sword and matching dagger. In his hand, Prospero carries a staff of light, polished wood, its head decorated with a golden claw clasped around a crystal orb. In the heart of the gem flickers a pinpoint of multi-hued light, visible only under close scrutiny—but flaring powerfully to life when the aged arcanist channels his art through the enchanted device.

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