Gaspard de Metz was, like most of humanity, once young. At such a time, he cut an impressive figure, strong and vigourous, and worthy of more than one slightly tortured comparison to various members of the animal kingdom, the choice depending on whether or not the beholder liked him or not. In Gaspard's mind, he is still much the same, drawing the same attention and worthy of the same praise.

Elsewhere, however, the truth is more stark, and far less appealing. With age has come corpulence, and with it unwelcome, but not undeserved, comparisons to less flattering and more porcine creatures. His once tanned skin has become paler and pinker in the dark of his hall, his hair missing and his eyes near hidden by the increasing blubber around his face.

The rest of his body is similarly changed, the proud stride replaced by a rolling waddle, and his once dextrous hands now gouting hams, with the greasy digits an unhealthy shade of maroon where his many rings cut the circulation from the main. With old age has also come carelessness, resulting in a definite reek of senility, decay and excess.