Raw-boned and sinewy like a poor season's mutton, there's nonetheless still enough meat on the man to make a solid meal for the tenacious. Seasoned by years spent in the elements, he has the look of a fellow "born with dirt under his nails", as they say in the North.

Along with the propensity for maturing early and then appearing to be around the same age for the next four or five decades, he seems to have inherited an expression of grim parochial disapproval; the type commonly perfected over generations by rural folk, directed toward anything not produced on their own land by their own labours.

He wears a frayed heshen robe which looks as though it could almost have been woven from a single fibre, over a homespun shirt and simple breeches. From the humble rope belt hangs a small pouch, which appears to be the sum total of his earthly possessions.


There are tales that beyond the wall roam herds of animals long forgotten in the Empire; the children of bestial gods venerated by savage tribes. Elk the height of a barn, enormous cats with teeth as long as a man's forearm, and other, stranger creatures of the mythical tundra.

Ox hearkens back to these legends of beasts primeval; as tall at the shoulder as an ogre's chest and bearing prodigious horns, Ox has an outlook more suspicious than his owner with half the patience and twice the temper.