Thalor moves like a man accustomed to stairs and courtrooms: deliberate, paced, and precise. He wears a long, charcoal coat tailored so it flares at the knees like a judge's robe, but the hem is singed in narrow crescent-marks that never seem to cross him. His left hand bears a dark palm-sized tattoo that shifts subtly—blotches of ink that open and close like an eye. His right forearm is scarred with a braided pattern of pale lines where a relic burned him years ago. When he laughs, it comes in a small, breathy exhale that looks almost apologetic. Unexpectedly, Thalor keeps a battered child's wooden toy horse tucked inside his coat pocket; he flips it between fingers when thinking.