Dúnedain ranger of the North as well as a survivor.
He is thirty five, though he only looks to be nineteen
He has been found for the past fifteen years predominantly in Ered-Luin
Outward Appearance

This man, proficient and competent to accomplish the bare necessities of survival through the voluminous prospect, as well as the abysmal and lurking shadows within the North, is a Wanderer of the lands to glimpse and foster those whom are incapable to do so alone, recognised as a Ranger. Despite escaping his youth and being within his thirty-fifth year from birth, this beast of a specimen emerge to be a stately man within the jejune nineteenth year, inheriting the distinctive blood-line of the Dunedain.

Losrandir, meaning ‘Snow-Wanderer’ in Sindarin, raises to the height of six foot and one inch tall and his habitus is immense, as he adorns capacious shoulders and vigorous chest capacity. With the attenuate contrast between his physique and the traits he just so happens to behold, Losandir is capable to be incredibly swift through his behaviour, and in some way would be peculiarly silent throughout as well, now having an advantage against his prey, or enemy. Undeniably, he is a man facile to battle.

This man’s physiognomy announces one of a puerile lad, innocent and not cognizant to the provinces around him. Would that be true? Gathering his antiquity and taking such into consideration, absolutely not. It would be clear to anyone that his countenance would not resemble his characteristics. His eyes, imbecilic and austere, are the iridescence of grey, a historic feature common within his kin.

((The above was wrote by the amazing Saeldail!)

He has some, mainly elves and dwarves from Ered Luin.
His father resides in Esteldín, along with his mother though his older brother is doing his own duties in the North Downs.
All of those that have evil intents.
The wilderness and everything related to it! He loves mushrooms, as well as fresh meat. He also loves company when he can get it, though it is a rare thing for him where he camps.
A wet bedroll, rotten meat that can no longer been eaten. He also hates loneliness, though it is something he must endure.
To do his work, and to protect those that need it.
"Good morning again, squirrels." - "Ah! Wood Blewit! Finally eating well!"