The Rohir has a way of holding himself that speaks of nobility and pride, often enough of a confrontational nature.

His years, closer to fifty than fourty, could be counted like tree-rings by the scars that cross his features. They are worn as easily as the gold that adorns his person, further indication of either rank, battle-luck or both. Although advancing in years, the man has the frame of one whom rides, trains and fights often enough to keep his form.

He keeps a richly decorated blade at his side in a scabbard of gold-clasped rich crimson leather. When riding into battle, he bears a long spear, it's blade wickedly sharp and decorated with whirling lines forged into it's steel.