Frank is a broad-shouldered, middle-aged human with close-cropped brown hair, ink-darkened fingertips, and a practical chain shirt beneath a travel-worn coat. His voice begins with a soft intake of breath, as if he is checking the wording of his thoughts before letting them out. He smells faintly of lamp oil, old paper, and the mint leaves he keeps tucked into his pockets.

Frank is patient, observant, and more comfortable comparing evidence than trading opinions. He listens closely, asks practical questions, and has a dry, understated sense of humor that often arrives several seconds late.

Frank spent years moving between manor libraries, monasteries, and provincial archives, earning a place at a reading desk by mending bindings, copying ledgers, and doing whatever work kept the lamps lit. He became a careful student of military histories, especially accounts of battles where a small decision mattered more than a celebrated hero. A retired drill sergeant who visited one archive taught Frank to handle a sword, then insisted that knowledge of violence was more useful when paired with the discipline to avoid it.