Thadric is lean to the point of looking unfinished, with a scholar's narrow shoulders and the straight posture of someone who learned long ago that stillness can be a kind of armor. His pale skin has the soft, indoor color of parchment left beside a window, yet his hands are weathered from herbs, scalpels, and too many nights of tending fevered patients. His dark eyes are alert and searching, always moving, as if he expects the next important detail to be hidden in a sleeve cuff or under a prayer bench. A thin silver circlet rests on his brow, dulled by years of wear, and a faint scar slices through his left eyebrow like a careless punctuation mark. His black hair is cut short and practical, but one rebellious lock always falls forward when he is tired. He dresses in plain linen healer's robes under a patched green-gray mantle, with a surprising strip of deep crimson silk sewn into the inside hem, a secret vanity from an otherwise severe man. He walks with measured, efficient steps, but his shoulders tighten whenever violence starts, as if his body remembers every injury he has ever patched shut.