Sahel stands like a moving cliff. He moves with deliberate, economical steps that make him seem both inexorable and watchful. His long black robes hang heavy as if they remember the weight of winters. Over the robes are worn bandoliers, a gray sash tied low at the hip, and a dark cloak brocaded in silver glyphs of Fynzar that flutters only when the wind of duty stirs. His headdress is flat and formal, edged with hammered metal like a warrior's crown. The tattoos of ancient Goliath runes trace pale lines along his jaw and forehead; sometimes, under torchlight, those lines seem to momentarily glimmer magenta. Contradiction: despite the austerity he projects, a small silk charm of bright magenta thread peeks from a pocket and sways against his thigh whenever he laughs softly, a private and oddly cheerful relic.