Astrum moves like a sentinel. He is almost always sheathed in armor that carries the patina of many dawn marches: tiny scratches from thorns, polished edges where his gauntlet rests, and a faint scent of oil and incense that follows him. Long blonde hair is bound behind his neck in a loose warrior's knot and catches light like spun wheat. His tan skin has an inner glow that people call otherworldly; in shadow it still seems warm. He favors a heavy cloak embroidered with his regiment's starburst, and the cloak's hem hides a small pocket that creaks with coins and a folded scrap of a child's drawing. Unexpectedly, beneath his combat-burnished gauntlet, his left wrist bears a slender bracelet of woven blue string, frayed but tied in three precise knots. The bracelet is delicate and out of place on such a soldier, and he fingers it when he thinks no one watches.