Tall and lithe as the old sun-claimed statues of his homeland. His skin shimmers faintly like burnished ivory under sunlight, and when he moves his robes whisper as if silk and chainmail share a seam. He wears a ceremonial suncloak pinned over half-plate engraved with stylized rays; the cloak is impeccably clean but its inner lining is patched in places with faded fabric from an old field tunic. One surprising detail is a thin braided leather cord tied around his right wrist—worn, soot-darkened, and clearly mundane—contrasting with the rest of his immaculate, gilded appearance. His motion is precise and paced, like a measured ritual; yet when angered he moves with a sudden, almost insectile quickness.