Rhael moves like someone accustomed to crowds but not to touch: a shuffle that keeps his hands tucked near his chest and eyes that dart as if reading layers of reality. His robes are a patchwork of midnight-blue silk and faded bureaucratic linen, embroidered with tiny sigils that shimmer when he is thinking. He wears a thin circlet of hammered brass set off-center over his left brow, and a narrow leather satchel always hangs from his shoulder, its flap stitched with a child's name in a hand different from his own. When calm he looks ineffably neat; when anxious his hair goes wild and the sigils on his sleeves glow faintly. Unexpected: one of his boots is a child's, too small and mended, and he wears it without embarrassment as if it anchors him to something only he remembers.