When Stryth was handing out gifts to fair maidens, this unabashedly handsome creature is most certainly what he had in mind. Standing head and shoulders above the common man, and speaking of shoulders... He is built like an absolute Warlord. But there is no menace in his posture, no swagger in his step... His fighting days are over, his wings singed beyond repair. They will still fly, but never again to the dizzying heights required of his kind. And though he smiles at passersby and is talkative when engaged, he is merely a shell of what he once was. If the eyes are the window to the soul, his are the portal to some place far, far more distant. They are dark and ominous like thunderclouds, in stark contrast to his alabaster skin and cascading locks of silver hair.