A broad-shouldered human man in blackened plate, Shesheta moves with the careful economy of someone carrying a full cup through a crowded room. His armor is not polished. It has been rubbed with lamp oil and charcoal until it reflects light like wet stone, while the edges remain bright from constant handling. A narrow black veil hangs from the back of his helm and brushes his shoulders when he walks. He keeps his beard shaved except for a small, meticulously squared patch beneath his lower lip. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice the smell of clove oil, iron filings, and old incense. He knows this and considers it part of his authority. The unexpected contradiction is that his gauntleted hands are astonishingly gentle, especially with frightened children, injured animals, and delicate written documents.