Thalirien carries the slow assurance of someone who trusts craftsmanship more than luck. He is tall and willowy, movements precise as a jeweler's, but instead of a jeweler's steady hands he leaves faint trails of pinpoint sparks in the air when he gestures quickly. His face is narrow, cheekbones high; the left temple bears a lattice of silvered filigree partly fused into skin — a failed experiment's scar that glitters when light strikes it. He wears a half-mask of hammered brass over his lower jaw when among tools, not because he fears fumes but because the mask's interior contains tiny sapphire lenses and a whisper-quiet servo that steadies his tremor during delicate work. Unexpectedly, when at ease he absentmindedly polishes his tools with a child's battered rag — an act so tender it softens his otherwise measured presence. The overall impression is of elegant mechanism made flesh: each movement economical and deliberate, with moments of surprising warmth in small gestures.