Tharen moves like someone who has spent half his life on lonely roads and the other half trying to appear ordinary in taverns. He wears a weathered half-cloak patched with patches from three different towns; the right shoulder bears a faded blue sigil of a mercenary company, the left shoulder was crudely stitched after a skirmish and still shows faint scorch marks. His jaw has a thin white scar that runs from the corner of his mouth to his ear; when he smiles it looks like a deliberate line drawn by a bored cartographer. His fingers are callused but ink-stained at the tips from ledger-keeping; his nails are trimmed, never dirty. He favors a posture just slightly off-balance, as if ready to step sideways; when he walks he often drums the hilt of his sword against his boot in a quiet rhythm. Unexpectedly, his left eye has a clouded milky sheen (old injury) while his right eye is a bright, quick grey that misses little. The overall impression is of a man comfortable with violence but habitually trying to look unremarkable—until he speaks, when careful humor and an undercurrent of cold assessment cut through the warmth.