A couple of scars, short, black, cropped hair and a weathered look adorn Rhys’ face. He stands tall at 5’11, in a mismatched set of dull, grey plate armour (scale mail stats). His forearms bulge out of bracers several sizes too small, while his curiass knocks as it bounces off the mail draped around his legs. The entire effect is one of a man walking slightly out of step with himself, however upon closer examination, the measured, metronomic stride of a man of unwavering purpose becomes clear. A tattered, ashy cloak hangs across his shoulders. And a small leather knitted talisman hangs on his belt, the warmth of the leather amiss amongst a man so devoid of colour.