A broad-shouldered white dragonborn whose scales have a faint, pearlescent sheen that catches lamplight like frost. He moves with the deliberate cadence of someone who has stood for years at an oven and an altar; his gait is steady, each step measured. His shield is well-worn but carefully cared for, its wooden rim smoothed and the painted symbol of a single green leaf with a teardrop of water beneath it weathered but still bright. Worn flour dust lingers in the creases of his chainmail and in the grooves of his muzzle, betraying his work as a baker. Unexpectedly, a thin silver circlet sits low on his brow beneath his horns, etched with tiny runes of a home cult—an intimate, almost domestic piece of holy regalia that looks at odds with the heavy chainmail and the large mace at his hip.