Tall and composed, Thessaium moves like a man who has practiced both prayer and parade. His skin has the pallor of long hours beneath veiled sanctuaries, but with a faint, living warmth beneath the surface—like marble warmed by a hearth. He wears ceremonial plate that has been painstakingly engraved with overlapping sigils; the armor's metal is burnished to a mirror sheen in some places and deliberately dulled in others, as if to seem both holy and lived-in. A wide cloak of black silk embroidered with a pattern of eclipses hangs from one shoulder, its inner lining stained with inks and alchemic residues. His left cheek bears a lattice of pale scars in the shapes of sigils, a permanent trace of a near-death vision. He favors his right hand for gestures and keeps his left hand almost always empty and unadorned. When he walks, he alternates between abrupt, decisive steps and slow, meditative pacing, giving the impression of a man listening and then answering at once.