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Martin was born unto a commoner family of Arx many, many years ago. He spent his youth in the capital, but eventually left it to journey westward as a disciple of Gild alongside the Knights of Solace. His travels took him all over Arvum, with White Journals aplenty detailing those adventures, without need to recount them here. When he at long last returned to Arx, Martin was almost forty years old. He could claim, without exaggeration, to have walked the length and breadth of the Compact; to have dined in Lycene flair with only one minor case of poisoning, attended religious festivals of the Oathlands, actually watch a northman wrestle a bear, sail aboard a Thraxian vessel and not get thrown to the sharks, and...Well, he is sure there was something to be said of the Crownlands, he just cannot seem to remember exactly what it was, but he assumes they were great. Some years later he watched the first sparks of the Tor-Southport war touch tinder, then there came the Tyde rebellion. On its heels was the loss of King Alaric III and Martin thought, surely, those were the most troubled days of their lives and he could hardly believe he had lived to witness it all. Nothing could prepare him for what was to follow: Queen Genevieve's death, the Tragedy at Sanctum, and the King's Rest. The Silent War. Martin was hardly the only one to ask himself if they had truly reached the End Times, yet as the Compact, by the grace of the Gods, pulled through that most harrowing of nightmares, Martin thought that he could breathe a sigh of relief. How wrong he was.

Martin is, quite happily, sage-like in appearance. (In his younger, more adventurous years, he may have said 'wizard-like,' but time has tempered that with wisdom and prudence). Which is to say he is an old man with a glorious white beard of respectable length - the envy of all younger men around, who can only wish their beard was even half the length or a glimmer of its fullness, and, if Martin may say so himself (he does), its satiny lustre. His hair, also stark white, has yet to abandon his head despite his advanced age, and falls just past his ears to blend discreetly with his beard. His eyes, which often sparkle with good mirth, are of a faded green, often times a touch watery. His skin possesses ruddy undertones, but is ultimately thin and prone to easy bruising. Martin is of average height, though a stoop has taken away a few inches, and his frame no longer recalls its former robustness in youth.

Martin is the sort of man who radiates the often sought-after-but-rarely-found virtues of friendliness, kindness, and genuine care for all whom he may meet. To say what you see is what you get from Martin is not altogether inaccurate. He is not Lycene to dabble in the art of subterfuge, and is too old to care to be anything other than who he is besides. Despite his preference towards the jocular, Martin is not a weak-willed push-over. Well, mentally, anyway. He would really rather not actually be pushed over. It could be that one good fall into the grave, after all.