Seamus moves like a man who has practiced appearing effortless. He keeps his posture immaculate, shoulders squared, steps measured. His dark suits are tailored to be narrow and silent, the fabric absorbing light; an inner undercloak hangs close to his frame and whispers when he turns. Embroidered over the left breast of the undercloak is a small hourglass sigil sewn in silver thread. His face is clean-shaven, the skin taut with quiet purpose. There is a faint vertical scar along his right eyebrow that makes his left eye look more intent when he regards something. When he smiles it is polite and brief, like someone clocking a courtesy rather than feeling one. Unexpectedly, tucked into his cuff he carries a battered wooden chess token carved with childish care, the grain worn smooth by a small hand. That token contrasts with the immaculate severity of his clothes, a mismatch that hints at tenderness hidden beneath his precision.