Markos Ward appears to be an amiable-looking young human male of a little above average height (somewhere around six foot one in fact), with hair both raven-wing black and fashionably erratic, cut and trimmed to frame his handsome, slightly angular features as though a fairly substantial sum of money has exchanged hands at one of the better class of salons to achieve the look and been well spent into the bargain.

To go along with his personal charm his eyes tend to be the first things others notice, hazel-gold and bright with an almost supernatural sense of energy (that would, in a wiser and more tired world generally be attributed to a decades-long sugar rush somewhere in the kiloton range) and boundless, optimistic curiosity shared by few in the wake of the war.

Physically he's well-built in a lean, muscular sort of way that suggests he doesn't manage to spend all of his time sitting crouched in an unergonomic position over a piece of particularly interesting parchment, his very presence was a token of a life that the world and all its woes have simply passed by without leaving the scars and nightmares that mar other, less invigorating lives spent so focused upon their mundane affairs that they're not free to look beyond the next hill.

For clothing he's usually to be seen in something that, irregardless of where it came from seems to have been tailored expressly to fit, a mark perhaps of the confidence with which he goes blithely about his everyday affairs, rarely accessorised with the sort of elegant and impractical weapon that's as much a fashion statement as a means of defence. Oh, and he usually has his number one silver piece about his person of course. You can't do without your lucky coin.