Caleb Flint

He’s huge – broad the way a Mack truck is wide – with the face like the front grill of one of those eighteen wheelers. With a fangy, wolfish underbite and ridges of horns that stagger out of his browline. In the stories, things like him were hiding under bridges listening for the trip-trap of hooves. In modern days, his hulking mass wouldn’t be amiss hiding beneath an overpass. Skin the color of slate, eyes colorless as ice or pale stones, and the twists of his dreadlocks spill down his back. He’s wearing workwear: leather jacket, thermal shirt, heavy canvas pants and boots that don’t make any sound.