Harland Marston is a small, albeit elegant, man. While he is closer to five than six feet, he appears perfectly proportioned, although whether that is the truth of the flesh or just a result of some excellent tailoring probably is only going to be clear to those who can prise him out of his ensemble.

Whether anyone would want to with anything other than a crowbar and a hammer is another matter, because his expression rarely flits away from a look of general disdain for his surroundings, as if everything in his sight offends him on a personal level. Perpetually preserved as an old man disappointed in the world around him, his face is lined and his dark eyes stare perceptively out from under the mop of white hair which tops his small, leathery head.