Tall and statuesque; his silver scales are dulled by a permanent haze of ash and frost, not shiny but pitted in places where shrapnel and weather have rubbed them raw. He moves with the slow, economical gait of someone who measures every step—no wasted motion, shoulders barely shifting. His black and grey leathers are slim, layered, and woven with faint, rune-threaded filaments that absorb sound; the leather seems matte from most angles but, when caught by starlight, reveals a ghostly threadwork that looks like falling snow. He wears a half-cloak that is shredded at the hem, each tear ceremonially tied with a scrap of ribbon bearing a name in tiny Draconic. He carries Omenpiercer: a longbow carved from glacial ivory, inlaid with starlit sinew that gives off a cold shimmer. Draconic names are carved along the stave—some crossed, some fresh—each representing a remembered enemy. Unexpectedly, the string of his bow is a thin, polished strand of grown silver hair from a lost lover, braided into the sinew; it is both intimate and dispassionate.