Thalen moves with a kind of slow deliberation, his gait uneven as if wary of unseen threats beneath the slick planks of the Drowned Docks. His weather-beaten face is a patchwork of pale skin mottled by scars both fresh and ancient—some jagged, others faded, most telling of close combat or old bar brawls. His piercing gray eyes are strikingly mismatched; the left eye is a cold silver, the other a muddy brown—a souvenir of a Syndicate blade crossing paths with him years earlier. His once jet-black hair is streaked prematurely with streaks of iron white, chopped short but untamed, softening the brutality of his visage. Over his intelligence and brutality, an odd habit: he keeps a small, cracked wooden duck figurine clipped to his leather pauldrons, a trinket whose origin is a well-kept mystery. In full gear, he presents a grim silhouette, layered in heavy leather patched with soaked sailcloth, always carrying the air of a predator waiting its time. Oddly, despite his harsh appearance, his voice can drop to a strangely gentle and persuasive tenor when dealing with informants or civilians—only to turn razor-sharp and barking when commanding his men or confronting enemies.