Thalirien moves with surprising smoothness for someone who spends nights among knives and campfires: a dancer's footfall in boots of scuffed leather. His left sleeve is pinned up to reveal faint, silvery scars that catch the light like spiderweb filaments. He favors a narrow, faceted staff of smoky crystal — nicknamed the "Glass Staff" — whose surface refracts even low candlelight into tiny, shifting rainbows. He keeps one eye constantly narrowed as if scanning for lines, seams, and weak points in the world around him. In sunlight he appears almost delicate, but in shadow the angles of his face take on a sharper, predatory look. Unexpectedly, when he laughs his voice bubbles into a soft, musical cadence that is more elven than not, contradicting the often ruthless things he says.