Firbolg Herbalist

This broad, gentle forest dweller looks like he’s never raised his voice in his life — but has raised several rare medicinal plants from seed. Tall and sturdy, his fur is flecked with bits of leaf and pollen like he walked through a meadow and decided to keep the souvenirs.

His beard is thick and slightly tangled, braided in a few places with twine and tiny wooden beads. Sprigs of herbs are tucked into it absentmindedly, because when you’re an herbalist, everything is either an ingredient or a future ingredient.

He wears layered, well-worn robes under a practical leather apron stained with plant dyes and herbal pastes. Pouches, bundles, and small cloth-wrapped packets hang from his belt, along with a mortar, pestle, and a tiny knife used strictly for “botanical purposes.”

In one hand he carries a large woven satchel stuffed with fresh herbs, roots, and mushrooms that may or may not be glowing. The other hand gently holds a small vial up to the light, inspecting the color with the serious focus of someone who knows exactly how much is “too much” willow bark.

A small woodland animal — squirrel, bird, or raccoon — perches nearby, clearly accustomed to taste-testing or unsolicited supervision.

His expression is calm, kind, and just slightly worried you haven’t been drinking enough water.