Tall, almost skeletal in silhouette, Nicholas moves like a shadow that has learned to walk with purpose. He wears only dusty blacks—matte-woven coats, silk shirts undermined by a close-fitting leather jerkin—and his clothes are always precisely arranged as if someone invisible had straightened them moments ago. His skin has the faint, cool pallor of someone who rarely spends time under the open sun; veins trace like faint grey threads at his temples. His hair is jet black, slicked back with the faintest sheen of oil, and a thin, closely trimmed beard frames his mouth like a blade's edge. When he stands, he favors a slight tilt of the head to the left, as though listening to a distant clock. Despite his leanness, his hands are callused and quick. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single white glove folded and tucked into his belt—on his right side he wears it rarely, almost ceremonially; on his left hand he never wears a glove at all, preferring to show the small, faded brand-line scar that disappears under his sleeve when he's relaxed. The overall impression is of a man designed to be unforgettable in his calmness: composed, distant, and a little unnerving.