Thalen moves like a man who has measured the distance between life and death and found both wanting and necessary. He is usually seen with his sword slung low and his shield slotted into his back at an angle that looks sloppy until you notice his eyes scanning for angles. His face is a map of thin white scars—one jagged line runs from cheek to jaw like the path of a careless blade; another, finer, arcs through his right eyebrow. His left ear is nicked and tipped, as if bitten by a harsh winter. He wears his hair in a short, practical braid at the nape that smells faintly of pine resin and pipe smoke. Unexpectedly, tucked beneath the edge of his chainmail at the hip is a small, patched cloth doll with one button eye and a red ribbon tied around its neck—a childish token that contrasts with his severe silhouette. When he stands, he prefers to lean on his shield as if it were a walking stick; when he runs, his stride is economical but astonishingly quick for a man his size.