A towering brass dragonborn whose silhouette seems cut from military geometry. His facial plates are angular and mirror-polished, though the edges have been dulled by decades of dust, oil, and ceremonial polishing. Deep-set amber eyes remain unnervingly still when he listens. His battle-scarred horns sweep straight back like a ram's, each wrapped near the base with a narrow strip of crimson silk awarded by fallen commanders. He moves with economical precision, never wasting a turn of the head or a step, yet his enormous hands are unexpectedly gentle when handling paper, instruments, or frightened animals. He smells faintly of hot brass, cedar oil, and bitter orange peel, a scent he believes comes only from his armor. The impression he leaves is of a locked gate that has somehow learned to remember every person it has turned away.