At about six-foot something or other stands this dirty tribal warrior. His body is lanky and corded with twisted, pronounced muscles like wood. Broad at the shoulders and tapering down, his figure is imposing and lithe like a tensed animal. He moves easily under a filthy pockmarked suit of combat armor littered with tribal patterns and pictographs wandering with no particular theme. His face is long and angular with pointed chin and raised cheekbones; his eyes dark under a thick pronounced brow. Minimal clothes cover his body with threadbare patches and stitches but much of his deeply tanned skin is exposed to the merciless desert sun. Thick, shoulder-length dreds hang down from his head with clay beads and various found ornaments adorning them.
In the Wasteland, Ironfoot is a bit of an anachronism looking like some kind of rastafarian hippy. He even smells faintly of some kind of musky fragrance though it’s overpowered by his strong body-odor. He doesn’t even seem to mind the flies buzzing about and landing on him.
Young and idealistic, Ironfoot assumed leadership of the Tribes of Scorched Earth after the previous chief vanished mysteriously. So far his position hasn’t been challenged, though he has yet to officially be recognized as ‘chief’.