Tall and carved like a river-worn statue: Thalion moves with the economy of a predator and the measured courtesy of a magistrate. His armor is polished to a funeral sheen, scuffs buffed until they glint like old coin. He wears a travelling cloak of dark green wool lined with crimson silk — the green for his county, the crimson a private mourning. His left gauntlet bears a hairline seam of silver wirework inlaid with tiny runes; when he flexes his fingers the wire seems to blink. An old burn scar runs from his jaw to his ear and the stub of a once-gold eyebrow thrusts his expression into a permanent brooding. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's chalk drawing folded in a leather wallet beneath his breastplate and sometimes traces it absentmindedly with his thumb when he thinks no one watches.