Thalen is tall and narrow-shouldered, with the severe elegance of a man carved from cold chapel stone. His pale skin carries a faint ash-grey cast, as if candle smoke and vault dust have seeped permanently into him. His long iron-black hair is kept in a single leather-bound braid, but a single white streak near the temple refuses to stay hidden, always slipping loose like a warning. His amber eyes are bright and unsettling, catching light with a predatory stillness that makes even confident people feel examined. He moves with careful economy, each step measured as though he is crossing a consecrated floor that might break under haste. The contradiction in him is immediate and memorable: for all his stern severity, his hands are beautifully delicate, almost priestly, with stained fingertips and burn scars that suggest both devotion and damage. He wears layered ceremonial robes of charcoal wool and deep crimson lining, over which hang strips of lacquered prayer-cloth inscribed with warding script. A ring of iron keys and seal-stamps clinks softly at his belt, and faint silver tattoos circle both wrists like manacles made holy.