A Satyr - Human-tall and broad-shouldered, but with the bowed and woolly legs of a goat - with a beard as thick as a broom and twice-curled horns framing his face. He has elongated ears like many Fey, marked with small wooden hoops and studs that have meaning to the Sylvan folk. Dark hair, nut-brown skin, and eyes of hot mustard yellow and darkest black, the colours of a goat's eye in the slitted shape of a hunting cat.

An intricately-decorated ironwood breastplate, worn over a jerkin and leather kilt, all very well-made in the fashion of the Forest Elves, as are tooled leather armguards with darkwood backings. Belts and a heavy baldric of scaled-leather support a long quiver, and hang a blade-heavy falcata-style sword from his side. Everything is neatly-fitted and tied so that there is no stray sound when he moves, no creak of worn leather or dry buckles, and nothing loose to snag in the forest undergrowth. He usually carries a recurved composite longbow, five feet of polished coastal yew stronger than the draw of most bows.

Feargus is not entirely civilized, nor exactly civil - his limited Common speech is fit for a tavern at best, and he sports a suitable vocabulary. His Sylvantongue bears such a thick accent as to be a whole other dialect to most listeners. Any time left unattended in a public place will lead to him loose among whatever merrymaking is afoot there; the language- and wool-barriers do not preclude him muttering sweet nothings with what must be supernatural success. If he can't fight, sing or dance with it, and it doesn't drink, Feargus doesn't know how to relate.

Everywhere Feargus goes, he is accompanied by the lynx known as "Beauty", whom he dotes upon like a favoured younger relation.