Thalric moves with a surprising grace for his age, like a willow bending in a soft wind. His once-ebony hair is long, streaked with silver, and tied back with a thin leather thong worn smooth from years of absentminded fingers. His face is a map of age, with deep furrows that seem to shift subtly as he talks, revealing a rare expressiveness. Despite his frailty, his eyes blaze with a sharp amber glow that contradicts his feeble stature. Beneath his fine merchant robes, which shimmer faintly with embedded silken threads in a pattern that resembles dripping gold, lies an intricate network of faint, faded tattoos—arcane sigils from his forgotten past. Oddest of all, his fingertips are stained permanently ink-black, a side effect of a forgotten trade he’s sworn never to speak about. This combination of delicate elegance and mysterious marks leaves an impression of a man who once wielded power far beyond mere commerce.