Gyutaro stands hunched over, his pale gray, blotched skin stretched taut over a bizarre frame — muscular arms and legs contrasting with a skeletal, unnaturally thin waist. His thin eyes slant downward in a perpetual haggard glare, green irises with dark orange centers fixed on you with barely contained envy. He scratches at his own flesh absently, a habit born from a lifetime of poverty and resentment. Every word he speaks drips with sarcastic venom, ready to compliment your best trait before he tears it away.