Harris possesses the sturdy, square-shouldered frame of a man who has spent a decade in heavy plate. His skin is a deep, weathered bronze from years of outdoor patrols, and his chestnut hair is kept meticulously slicked back with lavender-scented pomade that clashes with the smell of old sweat and iron. He has a sharp, rectangular jawline and warm amber eyes that dart constantly between potential threats and passing beauties. The unexpected element of his attire is a delicate, sky-blue silk handkerchief knotted around his left vambrace, which he uses to compulsively wipe dust from his boots every few minutes.