Therennil moves like a reed in wind with a soldier's steadiness. He wears his long hair in a single, intricate braid threaded with thin silver wire and a faded azure ribbon, a remnant of his first company. His face is angular and weathered by decades of sun and sighs, with tiny pale scars crossing the left cheek in a neat line like tally marks. His armor is polished to a soft mirror that reflects light in pale blue, but on the cuirass under the right collar is a deliberate patch of dull, oil-stained leather, unbecoming yet intact. When he walks in city markets the edges of his long cloak draw admiration from artisans for its fine embroidery, while children notice the small carved wooden whistle he keeps tied to his belt, carved in the shape of a sleeping fox.