Raymond Sarrez is a handsome half-elf with a practiced smile that looks effortless until you notice it is used like armor. His jaw carries a permanent five o'clock shadow, not because he neglects himself, but because he shaves only before funerals and coronations. He wears his full mustache waxed into a confident curve, slightly more dramatic on the right than the left, as if it has opinions of its own. His skin has the warm gold-brown tone of old parchment left in sunlight, and his movements are loose, rhythmic, and deceptively quick, like a duelist who learned footwork from dancers and brawlers both. One of his eyes is clear green, the other is flecked with amber and silver, giving him the contradictory look of a man who is always amused and always judging. He dresses in tailored velvet and travel-worn mail mixed together with obvious care, wearing a formal crimson coat over a practical breastplate polished to a mirror shine. The strangest thing about him is that he carries himself like a man headed to a feast, even when stepping into a battlefield drenched in ash.