Thalas moves like a reed in a gale: long, measured strides that can snap into sudden, jagged bursts. He wears a cropped slate cloak that crackles faintly with static in humid weather; beneath it, a robe of ink-blue silk embroidered with silver runes that look like lightning when caught at an angle. His fingers are ink-stained from prayer-maps and the candle-smoke of long vigils. Though elven-boned and graceful, his left shoulder bears a jagged white scar across the collar that stops several strands of hair from ever lying flat. There is a small, almost childlike scar on his lip he touches when thinking. Unexpectedly, he keeps a battered, cheerful stuffed sparrow tucked in a hidden pocket of his robe — a relic from being 'alone and small' that contradicts his fierce, priestly bearing.