Tharik moves like a man used to both formal drills and cramped scribal rooms: deliberate, economical steps that end in a careful, almost theatrical pause. His scales are burnished copper with a faint green patina along the jaw and collar, catching light into thin, shifting bands. He wears a faded captain's maubergeon over a stained linen shirt; across his chest a leather harness holds a short spear and a roll of parchment tubes. His horns sweep back like tidy archways and are rimmed with tiny nicks — each nick a remembered campaign. He keeps one gauntleted hand slightly ink-stained at the fingertips, an unexpected hint of a softer craft. When he walks into a room, people notice the smell of iron and ink together.