Thalorind’s gnarled frame moves with the restless grace of mountain winds. His ash-gray hair is long, tangled and wild as the fog-shrouded peaks he calls home, interwoven with shards of dried bones and strange feathers. His skin is weathered, cracked like withered bark, yet one forearm is covered in intricate glowing runes pulsating faintly, an unexpected mark of ancient power. His eyes are pale mist-blue, clouded but piercing, seeming to see through the veil of worlds and madness alike. His gait is erratic yet purposeful, sometimes limping, sometimes springing into sudden goat-like leaps. Wrapped in tattered layers of moss-stained wool and goat pelts, his presence radiates both decay and untamed vitality.