Luthig is compact and coiled like a drawn spring. His right cheek and brow are a seamed landscape of puckered flesh and glossy white scar that catches light like old metal; a stained leather blindfold is perpetually wrapped over his right eye. His beard is cropped short and singed at the tips, braided with thin iron rings engraved in a soldier's knot. His left eye is a pale green that narrows with constant measurement—he observes as much with posture as with gaze. He favors a battered iron half-plate, patched and hammered in places to make new shielding from old metal. On his left shoulder is a faded cloth patch: the crimson rose of Count Dancon Varyth. When he moves he favors his left leg slightly, a hitch from a spear wound years ago; his motions are smooth, deliberate, and economical—never wasted. Contradictory detail: the smoky burn scarred side of his face smells faintly of citrus oil and mint from the poultices he uses, an oddly fresh scent on a body that otherwise reeks faintly of ale and iron.