Rictor is a tall, broad shouldered human with a square jaw and a level gaze that trends towards the horizon. His normal coloring is the fair skin and dark hair and eyes of the western mountain kingdoms, but his time in the desert has burnt him a rougher shade of brown.

Much about him speaks of the lost grandeur of his past.

The nobility of his bearing is not readily apparent and the grace of his movements could be attributed, not to a childhood surrounded by courtly gentility, but to a lifetime spent walking the edge of a sword, teetering between death on either side. His armor was once the heavy plate of the Alkir royal guard, the Seven Spires of Alkir emblazoned across the chest. Now most of the pieces save breastplate and greaves have been discarded to favor light movement, and the intricate engravings have grown faded and tarnished.

He has the leather countenance of a laborer or an outdoorsman, his skin rough and sunburnt, the close crop of his hair windblown. His cloak is a thick, pebbly leather, once stiff as iron, now tanned to a sussurating suppleness. An expert in such matters would recognize it as the webbing of a dragon's wing, and it still confers some of the magical protection that it did to that great beast. His sword is made of a strange black metal that seems flecked with glittering impurities, the hilt well worn. Its quillions are formed from a once jeweled crown hammered flat and welded to the blade as crossguard.

His reputation at large is that of a quiet and reliable warrior, more at home in the savage wilds than at banquet, ever seeking some distant objective. Recent fame has come to him as the conqueror of the dread black dragon Esaolathus. Although no closely guarded secret, general rumor often fails to convey the connection between these two adversaries. Esaolathus utterly destroyed Alkir, Rictor's homeland, leaving him the prince of nothing but ashes.