Myrage is nearing his thirties, wide crowsfeet marking his face, and his brown leathery skin shows signs of great weathering, as if the ranger has spent his entire life in the hard rays of the sun. He wears a heavy black cloak, its edges frayed and many holes scattered among the apparently once fine material. Myrage has a regal manner, and his words carry the connotations of age and wisdom, though they are seldom ever spoken.

         The dog by his side has keen eyes, darting from side to side, and his ears peak, listening to the sounds of the world around him. A white streak runs down the length of the dog's tail, and two strange outcroppins of scarred flesh adorn his shoulders.