Orwell Nym cuts a memorable silhouette, tall and narrow as a coat rack dragged through a butcher's shop. His witch-doctor mask is carved from pale ash wood and lacquered with black resin, the beak hooked downward like a carrion bird's skull, its eyeholes ringed with stitched-on brass wire. Beneath it, his half-elf features are mostly hidden except for long fingers, a silvered jawline, and a mouth that is often visible only when he tilts the mask to sip tinctures or murmur to dying men. His coat is sewn from dead-gray military cloaks and strips of cured leather, but the lining is surprisingly clean, fragrant with rosemary, vinegar, and antiseptic spirits. He moves with a surgeon's delicate precision and a predator's readiness, every gesture economical, almost graceful, yet there is something unsettlingly tender in the way he handles bones and bandages. The most contradictory thing about him is the softness of his hands, which are warm, careful, and almost gentle despite the blood that never quite leaves his cuffs.