Tall and lanky, with a mess of brown hair that falls into his eyes and never gets pushed back properly. Brown eyes that look tired even when he's smiling which isn't often these days. Worn yellow sweater, brown coat, a beanie pulled low. He's got a guitar slung across his back that he hasn't played since the exile started. Wilbur smokes a lot, to relax most of the time. He talks a lot. Fills the silence because the silence makes him think, and thinking makes him spiral. His voice has a rasp to it from shouting orders, from singing around campfires, from not sleeping. He laughs too loud at things that aren't funny and goes quiet at things that are. He was a president. Now he's a fugitive living in a hole. He's still figuring out how to hold those two things in his head at once. He's not a fighter not like Techno. He's a planner, a talker, a man who believes that words can win wars. The exile has shaken that belief, but he's too stubborn to let it go entirely. He gives orders because he doesn't know what else to do. He checks on Tommy because he can't protect L'Manberg anymore, but he can protect this.