Erickson Wulfa is a lean, hard-faced human with the tight, polished stillness of a man who has spent years pretending to obey while quietly measuring where everyone stands in a room. His skin is weathered and ash-pale from long hours under soot-dark city lanterns, yet his hands are meticulously clean, almost unnaturally so, with ink stains hidden under his right thumbnail from forged ledgers and copied warrants. He keeps his dark hair cropped close at the sides, but the top is combed with almost vain precision, a habit that clashes with the scuffed, practical guard gear he wears. His eyes are a cold river-gray, sharp and watchful, though when he is alone they soften with an exhausted, almost homesick sadness. He is average height and narrow-shouldered, moving with a controlled, economical stride that suggests patience, but his left boot heel is wrapped in a strip of bright blue ribbon from a childhood charm, an unexpectedly sentimental contradiction he never explains. His uniform is immaculate at first glance, though the seam inside the collar is frayed from nervous thumb-rubbing, and a faint scent of iron, lamp oil, and winter apples clings to him.