Tharivus moves like a man who expects an audience. He stands with a chest thrust forward and a constant half-smile that both flatters and challenges. His armor is a recently repaired plate—slick, dark-steel polished to a dull shine—marred by a single, deep gash across the breastplate, over the place a human heart would sit; that identical scar marks the chestplates of the other generals and is both talisman and brand. His skin is dusky with a faint red undertone; small, pale rune-scars peek from the collar of his gorget. Two short, swept-back horns curve from his brow, ringed with bronze filigree. Where his cuirass ends, a tailored black tabard embroidered with the five sigils of the Generals drapes neatly. He wears a ceremonial sash of crimson silk, threaded with silver, that snaps when he strides. Unexpectedly, his gauntleted left hand is always immaculate, nails filed and polished as if for a diplomat rather than a soldier. He favors broad, theatrical gestures and will often tilt his head as if listening to applause even when none is present.