He is of about average height, his muscles corded rather than slabs of flesh. His face is burnished by sun and wind and sand, his long hair and beard dark, but with a slight russet tinge that marks him as a European rather than a Middle Easterner, as do his eyes which have a hazel cast. An observer would guess his age about forty years from the fine lines that seam his face and crease the corners of his eyes, bespeaking pain and sorrow as much as the glare of the sun.

Once in Arab lands, He wears a light brown or dark blue thawb (a mid-thigh length tunic, buttoned up indoors, open outdoors) over trousers tucked into knee-height black boots and a black shemagh wound around his head and neck, leaving his face exposed. A plain Jambiya dagger is thrust through the indigo sash at his waist and a holstered revolver hangs from a leather belt with a small pouch on the other side for coins and such. He is nearly indistinguishable from other Arab men.

His manner is wary and watchful, his eyes rarely still, even when his body is in repose. He speaks in low tones, barely moving his lips, his speech unaccented English, though somewhat stiff and formal, as though he hasn’t used it in some time. For all that, his vocabulary and accents are educated.


[His off-the-rack European clothes are new and he wears them as though he is unaccustomed to their restrictions. Notably, he wears no hat or tie, his shirt collar open at the throat. On his feet are low boots, rather than shoes, unscuffed and uncreased.]