Tall and broad-shouldered with windblown chestnut hair cropped to stay out of his eyes. He moves with a soldier's measured economy—quick to plant a foot, slow to overextend. His chain shirt is always meticulously cared for, links buffed to a muted gleam, though the cuffs of it and his once-polished boots still show the scuff and salt stains of long dock patrols. A small bronze token of the Divine One's sigil, Cambridgere, hangs at his throat; the center is worn mirror-smooth from years of rubbing it in the same nervous thumb motion. When he relaxes, an unknowable tension in his jaw slackens for only a breath before he straightens again. Contradictory to his severe bearing is a faintly childish habit: he keeps a battered wooden toy boat tucked in the inside pocket of his surcoat, a secret comfort from childhood.