As long-winded as La Noscea's sea breeze, as talkative as the ceaseless brooks of the Shroud, and as full of as much hot air as the Thanalan skies, this man never comes up empty-handed when it comes to putting in a word on a situation. His flapping tongue gets him in a fair amount of trouble, but luckily for him, that same tongue is coated in enough silver to get him out of the same. Usually. Sometimes.
Slender of frame, short of stature, and persistently clean-shaven, his appearance is such that one could almost be forgiven for mistaking him for a gangly youth only barely out of adolescence. Only the keen glint in his eyes betrays that he's seen as much as any salted veteran; perhaps, even more.
...that, and the luscious mane of black as night hair he maintains. Those locks didn't grow in overnight. It's as if he's celebrating the fact that he no longer needs to keep his head bottled up within a helmet, with how much vain attention he puts into those locks.
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