Thadric is a lean human with the spare, thoughtful look of someone who has spent too many nights awake over candlelight and too many mornings inside a healing tent. He stands a little under average height, straight-backed but careful not to loom, as though he has learned that even kindness can feel like pressure if it takes up too much room. His skin is a soft cream color, pale but healthy, the kind of pale that comes from books, rain, and temple corridors rather than sickness. A thin silver circlet rests across his brow, dulled by wear and polished only where his fingers touch it unconsciously. His black hair is cut short and practical, though a few stubborn strands always escape at the temples. His sharp face is all angles and restraint, with a straight nose, a narrow jaw, and a faint stubble that never quite becomes a beard. The small scar through his left eyebrow gives him a slightly perpetually worried expression. His dark eyes move constantly, alert and searching, but they soften instantly when he tends a wound. He wears an undyed healer's robe of soft linen, patched at the elbows and hem, over a sturdy belt loaded with herbs, bandages, thread, tinctures, and prayer strips. The odd contradiction is the way he carries himself like a cautious scholar while his hands are those of a battlefield surgeon, quick, sure, and almost unsettlingly calm when blood is flowing.