Long green tendrils fall humorously maintaining a bone straightness by the follicle but ending in bouncy curls. A lone strand or two occasionally falls down over his face, shading the particular gray nature of his pupils. A short pointed nose is turned up perpetually displeased with any odor outside of his own. A strong figure flexes with every moment, clearly no stranger to intensive physical labor, and his hands are covered in dirt. The smell of a funeral pyre seems to accompany his every move, nauseating any who come too near.