A broad-shouldered hobgoblin with dark skin the color of polished mahogany and hair that falls in a close, practical cut, black through most of its length but streaked with silver-white at the temples and one sharp lock over the brow as if ash had permanently threaded itself through the strands. His face is lean and alert, with a nose broken once and reset badly, giving him a permanent sideways angle that makes his expressions look half-skeptical, half-compassionate. He moves with the precise economy of a drill sergeant, yet his hands are soft from repeated washing and salve application, and he carries himself like someone used to running toward screams instead of away from them. His right sleeve is always rolled higher than the left, revealing a field of old scars and a neat tattoo of tally marks cut across the forearm. The contradictory detail that catches most people off guard is the tiny embroidered flower stitched inside his severe battlefield cloak, a private softness hidden beneath his armor.