Thalen moves like a man accustomed to being watched: deliberate footfalls, shoulders squared, the hem of his coat rarely still. He favors a long, charcoal duster lined with midnight-blue silk that rustles like a whisper of sea-foam when he turns. His left hand is tattooed from wrist to elbow with an inky lattice that looks almost like cracked glass; under certain lights the lines shimmer faintly with a deep violet hue. He carries his pact weapon — a narrow, blackened longsword named Nightwhisper — balanced across his back and seated in a scabbard of stitched raven-feather leather. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's wooden bead bracelet on his right wrist, ludicrously bright against his otherwise muted wardrobe; he fiddles with it when nervous, a tender contradiction to his grim, war-scarred bearing.