Sir Tavik looks like a man who was built to stand his ground and then spent his entire life backing away from that promise. He is broad-shouldered and sturdy, but he keeps himself folded inward whenever anyone unfamiliar comes near, as if trying to occupy less world than he deserves. His armor is polished well enough to reflect candlelight, yet it bears tiny scratches in the shape of frantic turns, quick retreats, and the occasional panicked sit-down behind a wall. His enormous tower shield is painted with a saintly sunburst on the front and a dozen little comic battlefield scenes on the inside, each one depicting him hiding, ducking, or escaping in a style that is almost artful. The strangest thing about him is that his helm plume is always immaculate, even when the rest of him looks like he has fled through nettles, mud, and shame. He moves with nervous quickness that suddenly becomes graceful whenever music starts, and in those moments he looks briefly, confusingly radiant.