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Nester Stockman was born to a common family in Valardin lands. They worked as wagonwrights and soon enough moved to the capital where their fealty quietly changed prior to any true success. Wagons and routes, horses, and transport. It was his life to make things move from place to place for a price of course and he became well to do with it. As he became more elderly his stoic observation of Orthodoxy and reservation began to slip. Wines and cigars, decadent foods, and mirrors. All began to enter the trade, deals floundered when he discussed them easily twisted and wound up until he's plum forgotten what he agreed too. Nowadays he has his ledgers though, as long as he doesn't forget no sweet talking man nor woman can set his mind astray for long.

He is not short but neither is he tall, his shoulders are rounded from the years and a life of plenty has left him with the roundness of a gut and the full face despite his age. His limbs are sturdy the strength of movement and work still lingering even if there may be a tremor from time to time. His skin is wrinkling especially around the eyes and his cheeks, the hued leathery brown from years of labor. His hair is bone white and only now beginning to thin, kept combed back in a slick styling.

Nester was known as overtly orthodox in his youth and middle age and someone who believed in word and contract. As he's aged there is a dottering forgetfulness that comes to him and some might say an unhealthy interest in the decadent life that he had eschewed for so many decades. He's easily persuaded and confused with words, but books are his final guide for everything.