Thaloryn is a tall centaur whose equine half carries the lean, rippled muscles of an explorer; the fur is slate with faint silver dappling along the haunches. From the throat up, their humanoid torso is long-limbed and precise, crowned with a narrow, angular face like a weathered manuscript. Arcane tattoos—intricate, glowing filigree of indigo and burnished copper—crawl across every inch of visible skin, stopping in an almost-perfect circular border just under the chin. The tattoos pulse softly when spells are read aloud. They move with deliberate economy: when walking through crowded stacks, Thaloryn's hooves are careful, as if each step is a calculation. Their robe is an archmage's garment: deep midnight blue embroidered with star-constellation sigils, slit on the sides to accommodate the equine flanks. Unexpectedly, beneath the robe's front flap, Thaloryn keeps a battered child's leather satchel full of pressed flowers and scribbled poems—an odd, gentle contradiction to their formidable bearing.