Thadric is a lean, almost spare human man who looks built more for long vigils than labor. He stands just under average height, with a straight back that seems trained rather than relaxed, as though he learned young that visible confidence can keep panic from spreading. His skin is a soft, unbroken cream, pale from years spent under candlelight and in chapel archives rather than from illness. A worn silver circlet rests on his brow, its edges dulled by handling and its interior wrapped with a narrow strip of faded blue cloth so it will not chafe during long services. His dark eyes are large, quick, and intent, the sort that miss almost nothing, and they give him a look of constant, mild alarm that vanishes the instant someone is bleeding. His black hair is cut short and practical, but one stubborn lock always falls forward when he bends over his notes. His face is sharp-boned, with a strong jaw, narrow nose, and a faint scar cutting through the left eyebrow. His hands are long-fingered and steady, but the fingertips are stained with old tinctures and herb dyes. He wears a plain healer's robe of undyed linen softened by age, with a fitted leather belt carrying herbs, bandages, needles, wax seals, and tiny vials. The contradictory detail that makes him memorable is a small, neatly repaired patch on his robe shaped like a star, sewn in bright crimson silk, as if someone tried to make him look celebratory and he never had the heart to remove it.