Chlodman moves with deliberate, practiced grace. He stands in well-polished plate that bears the faint dents and careful repairs of constant service. The crimson tabard over his armor is embroidered with a rampant black lion, its mane rendered with tiny stitches that gleam when he shifts in light. His medium-long brown hair is always tied tightly at the nape; loose strands curl damply against his temples after exertion. His jaw carries a light, purposeful stubble that he never fully shaves away. The most striking, contradictory element is his eyes: a very human brown set beneath solemn brows, yet when he prays or remembers the forest where he was found, they take on an almost fey, pale green rim that catches the light and makes strangers uneasy. When he walks he tends to keep his shoulders squared, but his hands move as if used to both paintbrushes and reins, a subconscious echo of the Temple that raised him.