Thadric is a study in careful contradictions. He is lean to the point of seeming almost ascetic, with a straight-backed, self-effacing posture that suggests he is always trying not to disturb the air around him. His cream-pale skin looks untouched by long sun or hard weather, yet his hands are marked by the honest grime of herbs, ash, and old ink. A worn silver circlet rests on his brow like a relic inherited too early, polished bright at the edges and dulled where his fingers worry it when he is thinking. His black hair is cropped short and practical, though one stubborn lock always falls over his left temple as if defying him. His dark eyes are alert and searching, but they soften instantly when he sees pain he can ease. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and his otherwise neat healer's robes are softened at the cuffs by repeated washing. He smells faintly of crushed rosemary, lamp oil, and rain on stone, and he moves with quiet precision, as if every step were measured to avoid wasting strength.