Sigurd Tomasson, at his tallest, would have been just about the average height of man, but his aged years has caused his spine to curl and shrink. His features, once sharp and angular, have drooped and sagged in his older years. His nose is long, but blunted. His ears are large and pointed. His clothes are furs and pelts, results of various trappings and patience. On his back is a set of crude spears, wrapped and kept together by a leather bag.
From his time out in Exile, Sigurd has learned to step cautiously and carefully. Each foot is placed carefully, as if he is walking an already well-worn path. His eyes track the distant horizon, open wide and constantly watching his peripherals. Every few moments he clutches his bag, counting the number of spears without looking.
Sigurd’s life has been harsh, but rather than facing it head on, he chooses to run and hide. Avoiding problems, only facing them with an overwhelming odds has been how he gets through life. As such, his outlook of the world is not a bleak or fearful one, but one of careful and quick study, with an innate distrust.
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