A bundled silhouette of old robes and slow, precise gestures. He moves as if every motion has been timed to music only he can hear. His robes are layered like the rings of a tree, each hem embroidered with sigils from a different era of the guild. Under the robes, his spine is slightly curved but he carries himself with a calm certainty. When he walks, the hem of his outer robe does not touch the ground; it seems to hover an inch above the floor as if repelled by a faint field of light. Unexpectedly, one of his hands is gloved in bright red leather while the other bare hand is ink-stained, the fingers tinted with purple from decades of potion sketches and spell diagrams. Close observers notice his left sleeve is pinned with a tiny broken sundial that still ticks faintly.