Thalenir moves with a cautious, deliberate limp, his left leg carrying the telltale, uneven weight of a broken bone never properly set. His skin is ghostly pale, almost translucent, with dark veins faintly visible beneath the surface like fragile river tributaries. His black hair is kept short and unkempt but oddly smooth, as if slicked by some unseen moisture. Narrow, sharp eyes gleam an uncanny oily gray that seems to shimmer when struck by light, giving him an unsettling moonlit glow. Worn leather gloves tightly grip his signature walking stick—a blackened crane's head carved from bone, stained with faded crimson and set with minute runes. His cloak is threadbare yet embroidered with almost imperceptible swirling shadows that ripple subtly as he moves. The incongruity lies in his movement: despite his limp, he often melts into obscurity like a wraith, silent and fleeting as a shadow, yet occasionally startled by his own ragged breath in the silence.