This man has the countenance of a stray dog. He's groomed well enough that it's clear he bathes and brushes himself on a regular basis, but he's hardly fit to attend banquets meant for heroes or nobles. On the few occasions he's been invited to such things he's shown up in frayed shirts and trousers sporting holes around the knees. He pays no mind to conventions of social status, and he has no patience for people who put such things before the demonstration of character or ability. He's well-read and speaks eloquently, but his mannerisms indicate he hails from the lower classes, or at the least spends the bulk of his time with unsavory sorts.
His history is a mess, largely because he rewrites it whenever he fancies. Nobody gets a straight answer out of him concerning who is or where he's been. That he's stuck with the name Wilhere long enough to start forming a reputation is nigh miraculous. It's not his real name, and even if he deigned to share the real one he'd have to think long and hard to separate it from the many false identities he's crafted over the years. His surname - Stringer - has stuck with him the longest out of any of his monikers, and he always grins when he recalls how he was gifted with it. He was sent after slavers, and he hung 'em up by their privates for the law to find. It's not what he was paid to do, but though he went through hell to dodge the consequences of ignoring his orders, the wince of recognition that sometimes comes with the utterance of his name is all the compensation he could ask for.
He's not one to play hero, but he's reluctant to pass up the benefits that come with being one. That, and he has a strong sense of honor for being one that sulks about the dark corners of society. He's the type who keeps walking when he hears a scream off in the distance only to stop, grit his teeth and mutter an obscenity before brandishing his knives and rushing to deal with the situation. He acts aloof and does a good job pretending he doesn't care what's going on in the world around him, but anyone who earns his respect would find him with his knives drawn every time they need somebody at their back.
If Wilhere had to sum himself up he'd say something like "I've never been a good man, but I've always been free." Should someone find him speaking truth about his past they'd notice a tinge of regret in his voice, though he'd likely be too vague for them to discern why. When asked about his family he says they're dead, but whether that means they're buried in the ground or dead to him - or if he's dead to them - is impossible to say, and he's quick enough to don the mask of the jovial drunk that nobody gets to inquire further should they start down that path.
The white markings on his face glow silver in the moonlight. His white eye is capable of sight, but not the usual kind. He senses things, and sees colors surrounding humanoid shadows, and those colors take the form of tendrils that reach out and intertwine with those surrounding the other shapes. He doesn't know what to make of it, and he mostly blocks it out except when the things he sees betray the presence of those cloaked by shadows or weak glamours. His other eye is gold, and both slant such that he's described as a hyur with a cat's eyes.
He'd rather be thought a fool than be seen for what he is. Upon first meeting him most would likely think him a man lacking in moral fiber with nothing of worth to say. Those who stick around long enough would see otherwise, as would those who met the serious side of him out in the field. He doesn't consider himself to have a home, but he spends a good deal of his downtime in Limsa Lominsa and the back alleys of Ul'dah scouting for ale and coin.