Seemingly obsessed with root and herb, this old man most likely smells of soup. His booted feet stride many a brook and bramble, his keen grey eyes see across ford and fallow. His voice soothing and deep, speaks from a wise and wrinkled face, which more often than not bares his usual grand fatherly smile. His dark and thick hair is now balding and speckled with grey. Worn robes hold many pockets, his scarf his warmth, his hood his hideaway and hat his crown, should Brigferth need ever frown. You may see him, sat beneath bridge, hidden amongst wood or lay beneath tree, humming or whistling old songs as should any who are merry. His travels take him over hill and across vale, wandering to some cause of his own, and his kin. Many a rumour hang about this fellow, witches aid, hermit, fool, some say a wizard found wanting, though none apart from a small few of his kin know his tragic tale, dotted with his rabbitish luck and his foxish cunning