Thadric is a lean, almost ascetic half-elf with the taut stillness of someone who has learned to conserve motion and breath. He stands a touch under average height, with a straight-backed posture that looks disciplined rather than proud, as though he is always trying not to occupy more of the room than necessary. His skin is a soft, pale cream, smooth and carefully kept, but his hands tell a different story: long-fingered, ink-stained at the cuticles, and faintly scarred from blades, boiling water, and hurried battlefield work. A thin silver circlet rests low on his brow, worn to a dull sheen by years of use. His dark eyes are alert and restless, always measuring pulse, exits, motives, and lies. His black hair is cropped short for convenience, yet one stubborn lock always falls forward after he has been bending over the injured. His face is sharp-boned, with a hard jaw, a straight nose, and a narrow scar splitting his left eyebrow. The contradiction that people remember most is his expression: the solemnity of a priest paired with the exhausted tenderness of a man who has spent too many nights bargaining with death and somehow expects it to answer politely.