The pale moonlight dappled the craggy surfaces of the boulders and stones surrounding camp. Sparks danced alongside the lustrous patches and slightly lifted the mood, but not by much. Everyone was weary and exhausted from the journey and we all looked to our leader for strength. There he is now, standing on the edge of this faceted cliffside and staring into the distance.
His face is chiseled and inanimate, but eyes such a piercing and shocking blue could only hide so much. His cheeks and jawbones are outlined with a dark beard. It travels down, slightly past his chin, and hair of the same shade covers his regal head, draping over his shoulders. Both are lightly streaked with silver and white strands.
His torso is cloaked in russet furs and trailing fabric of a faded navy. It is common knowledge that everyone wears concealed armor and he is no exception. Around his waist is a wide belt, with loops for holding scabbards and swords. His pants are the same color as his long shirt, deep navy, and are hidden behind his cloak. Leather boots adorn his feet. His hands are large, rough, and calloused from many days working as a blacksmith. On his right middle finger, he wears a glinting ring in the shape of a gem and on the opposite extremity is one engraved with the common tongue of his race.
Majestic and resolute he stands, and his voice is a clear baritone. Few see the caring side of him and he appears as firm, obstinate, and proud; never showing weakness and never letting down his guard. However, a person can only go through so much, and he has reached the maximum. He is lost and homeless, but many cannot comprehend or realize it. After all, he is supposed to be strong for the group, as leader. He is their king, exiled and looked down upon, but a king nonetheless.