Komar moves like a man who expects order: measured steps, shoulders squared, each gesture economical. His face is a map of small, deliberate scars laid out like punctuation—thin white lines crossing a dark russet hide. He keeps a neatly braided chin-crest inlaid with tiny brass rings that clink softly when he speaks. His left forearm bears a narrow tattoo in the house pattern: a stylized spear over a closed fist, inked in deep indigo. He favors a high-collared half-cloak pinned at the right shoulder; beneath it peeks a breastplate polished to mirror sheen, but the leather straps are scuffed and softened from constant use. Unexpectedly, despite his severe bearing, he wears a single silk glove embroidered with a child's name in silver thread on his right hand—worn where only he can see. In sunlight his teeth flash yellowed and oddly human, a reminder of the uneasy line his house walks between tradition and adaptation.