A broad-shouldered dragonborn whose brass-tinged scales catch lantern light like hammered metal. His snout is scarred with a jagged pale line that travels from the ridge of his nose down across one cheek — a souvenir from a bar fight in his twenties. He moves with a deliberate, economical grace: not quick like a youth, but every step speaks of measured force. He keeps one gauntleted hand often resting on the pommel of a greatsword slung along the wall behind his chair as if it were both an ornament and an authority; the other hand is small-fingered and surprisingly deft, always ready to deal stacked chips or flip a coin. Unexpectedly, his left eye is clouded and milky, and when he smiles he reveals a practiced, warm tilt that contradicts the cold efficiency in his bearing. Patrons leave feeling watched but simultaneously protected — he gives the impression of a heavy, steady anchor in the chaos below the city.