Baron Heinrich von Dortmann was a man who cut a striking physical swath across whatever path he walked, a near-perfect specimen of that Teutonic excellence so revered during these times. Standing 188 centimeters, or just over six feet two inches, he was imposing not by mere size, but in nearly all of his features. Conspicuously handsome, by looks he seemed more suited to the corporate boardroom or even the Reichstag. Inwardly, however, he was never happier than when dressed in the garb of a workingman, with well-worn boots on his feet, and with his hands covered with the rich black dirt of the earth he loved.

A thick and plentiful crop of hair, light in his youth, had now darkened considerably and had begun to grey. It came down to his ears, but was so thick as to defy a regular part anywhere on his head, a characteristic reinforced by the fact that he rarely wore a hat and was so often outside in the wind and weather. Though the supply of thatch was abundant, it did leave room for a wide rectangular forehead, full of expression, though the lines that could frequently be seen on it were not the troughs of worry. Below it, medium-thick eyebrows—retaining memories of the blond hair of his youth—moved about in curious expressiveness, highlighting the eyes they so perfectly framed.

The entire structure of the face was rectangular, well proportioned with strong angular lines. High, full cheekbones accentuated slightly indented, well-sculptured cheeks, which flowed downward, with but the tiniest hints of jowl fat, into a wide, sturdy jaw, squared just enough at the chin to provide the perfect complementing frame to the whole with the hairline above.

The lips were slightly thin, but given added expressiveness by the protruding Germanic lingual effect of exaggerated vowel shapes, with movements and twists about them that varied with every distinct word, and which took on curious modifications, subtly affecting the baron’s entire looks, when he spoke in different tongues.

The voice that came resonating from his throat was a smooth, even silky baritone, neither particularly deep nor loud, yet resonant and commanding, as if it came from a Meistersinger holding an abundance of sound in check. The timbre, though not forceful or commanding by volume, confirmed instantly the reservoirs of dynamism existing beneath the surface. It was a voice one listened to, even when it spoke in a whisper. It carried authority by its sheer puissance. An unmistakable dynamic of power existed below the surface that was apparent without the shallow pretence of oratory and volume to which lesser men—like the one presently in command of the nation—had to resort in order to mask insecurity and cowardice.

The overall effect of the man’s carriage was unmistakable. A more classic replica of the exquisitely crafted Teuton it would have been difficult to imagine.