Fearg Dhè moves like someone who believes every eye belongs to him and must pay homage. His posture is exaggeratedly erect, chest thrust forward, as if a constant draft might otherwise steal his crown. His skin is meticulously cared for yet pallid from long hours indoors; a faint, persistent smear of river silt sometimes sta ins the hem of his boots from when he rides along the Dunsham. His hair is glossy-black with a deliberate white streak at the temple, trimmed in a fashionable wave. He wears a high-collared crimson coat embroidered with gold filigree and a heavy signet of Milseavia at his throat. His left hand is ringed with multiple signets and a narrow, almost fragile-looking bracelet taken from a conquered border lord. The contradiction in him is visible: his boots and cuffs are immaculate, but his hands sometimes bear the calluses and ink stains of petty scribal revenge, as if he signs edicts himself and delights in the slow bureaucracy of cruelty.