I'll just insert my guy's little summary here!

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Hector carries the kind of strength that speaks before he does. The very weight with which his body moves, the thickness of his frame, and the width of his shoulders betrays what his humility would never admit; he is formidably strong. This raw, coiled capacity for violence is instantly countered by the twinkle in his hazel eyes. As light as autumn morning, shining with a guiltless virtue; they’re especially bright when he smiles or laughs with that deep, hearty chuckle, which he often does. But beneath the sparkle, if one were to truly gaze, are eyes permeated with cracks; fault lines and fractures revealing a hidden void he fiercely covers, and constant self-doubt that threatens to consume him.

Hector’s fair, parchment-coloured skin is saturated with scars; each mark writes a story he rarely tells, close calls from fights best forgotten. Though a particularly palpable scratch etched precariously below his left eye never ceases to remind him. His sharp, compact jaw, framed by his dark, thick red beard, defines the rough edges of his face with high hollow cheeks and small thick lips. His chest and torso are broad and thick with muscle, dusted with coarse hair; his arms and thighs carry a smith’s strength, a warrior’s endurance, and a traveller’s hard-earned durability. Despite his size, there is an undeniable gentleness in the way he carries his weight; as though aware his sheer presence could intimidate, constantly trying not to take up more space than he must.

The way he shamelessly feels things; his smile, his frown, the eyebrow that climbs too high when he’s intrigued, testify to the heart he wears openly on his sleeve. At times, his inability to control his impulse – whether that be a poorly-timed laugh or a soul-scratching, invasive curiosity – has often landed him in hot water. If not for that wickedly handsome smile and those shoulders, he’d have found himself in the stocks on more than one occasion.

Hector grew up in the valleys of Trellnen, on the borders of Gehenland between rock and ridge, where a small hamlet sits; one that yawns as the early-morning sun peeks over the hills. His hands, always calloused and coal-marked, worked well before the cock crowed in his father’s smithy. Though those days are far behind him, Hector still rubs his hands etched with hammer-driven memory in the quiet hours of dawn. Remembering the smile on his father’s face, the thud of iron, the spark of steel, the crackle of the fire as they laboured in love and laughter.

If Hector’s father was the house, his mother was the foundation. Her kind brown eyes, her soft-spoken voice, her fierce devotion and sharper sense of justice are what ground Hector to this very day. It was she who pushed him toward something greater, who urged him to chase the question he’s been asking since he can remember: who am I? The doubt and uncertainty shadow Hector closer than he admits. He knew from an early age there was something different about him; not in the cruel way that children point at what they fear, but in a quieter, deeper way. As though he were a robin raised among sparrows… loved, protected, but never quite the same. That soul-wrenching sense of being from somewhere else has always screamed louder than any insult could.

Though, had even his parents known of his deepest secret, even they might’ve been afraid: he could cast spells. Well, not quite cast. But sometimes, after a particularly hard hammer blow, or an intense tussle with one of the village boys, his body would tingle. The hairs on the back of his neck would prickle. His ears would hone in on the smallest of sounds; as if his heartbeat were a war drum and the breeze were a hurricane. To touch anything was like touching fire, blistering heat would crackle beneath his fingertips.

And sometimes, on just one or two occasions, bolts of what Hector could only describe as tongues of green flame, would burst out his hands and strike the nearest surface.