Nevyn Nyseth is striking in a way that makes people trust him one moment and fear him the next. His face is smooth and almost handsome, with a calm, practiced expression that never quite reaches his eyes. Matted auburn hair hangs in stiff, oily ropes around his temples and neck, smelling faintly of soot and bitter incense. His hazel eyes catch light like wet amber, warm at a glance and strangely predatory when he studies a room. He stands a little too upright, as if a spear is always in his hands even when it is not, and he moves with a fighter's controlled economy, each step measured like a vow. His black half plate is polished only where it matters, while the rest is dulled by layers of ash and old heat. Over it he wears robes woven from asbestos and silk, charcoal black with a subtle shimmer like banked embers beneath charcoal. The robes are elegant and ceremonial, yet the hems are singed and frayed, which gives him the unsettling look of a priest who has survived his own altar fire. A silver dog named Balda often walks close to his heel, making the whole figure seem at once holy, martial, and faintly impossible.