Mr. Wyndham is not well known in most circles, although in rare moments observant folks think maybe he was, or should be, or has been. Those who had known his former self would have trouble recognizing him, and he was never well liked anyways.
Upon meeting Wyndham, the question most on people's minds is "where are the bottom halves of your legs?", but most gentlemen and ladies would not presume to ask that and Wyndham has never been heard to volunteer the information. These people usually recover from this train of thought by focusing on the chair he rides around on, which tends to remove the focus on his lack in the leg department with little effort or demonstration.
He is well spoken, but quiet. Often thought to be thinking, brooding, or sulking, his grizzled appearance is rather offset by his well made, if a bit tired clothing. Neither of these do much to balance his brisk manner with those around him. He isn't really old, but most would guess him to be 10 to 15 years older than he really is. From time to time a memory twigged will light Wyndham up like an arc welder, but once he's done glowing he will typically grow quite shadowy, throwing himself into very focused work.
The chair offers clues to his past. The parts can be traced back to a formidable rail baron, where Mr. Wyndham was well paid for his work on a secretive project that has still not come to light. He was well paid, and well respected, grudgingly. His talents were valued, until an explosion claimed his legs just above the knee. The resources pulled together to assemble the chair he would spend virtually all of his time in rival the yearly revenue of most small countries. With this chair, he could continue his work with little inconvenience.
Wyndham was told to leave when it was seen that he could no longer focus and had become a danger to himself and those around him. He was no longer trusted, and so he was no longer valued, respected, or, sadly, paid. His parting gift was the chair.
Having been a mercenary, he is no longer in good standing with his school. He still has the Art, but no longer has the resources he had become accustomed to. He is smart enough to know that the explosion was no accident, but has never discovered just who was responsible. For this reason he trusts no one, suspects almost everyone, and obsessively avoids people from his past. He appears to have no living relations, and very few friends.
His personal project is constructing himself some new legs. It is primarily secret, and revealed only on need to know. Unfortunately for him, they are complex enough that he will need much assistance before they can be completed.