Icchast moves like a storm grown tired: purposeful, deliberate, each footfall muffled by well-worn boots. His full plate is oddly polished in places and deeply scratched in others; the breastplate bears a ragged oval of gouges where a holy sigil was once burned off, the metal discoloration around it still faintly warm to the touch — as if the symbol was removed not long ago. Wisps of pale, almost-white light drift under his skin and flicker across armor seams like tiny, contained lightning. A heavy shield is chained to his left arm by a short length of blackened iron links; scars in the shield mirror the scratches on his breastplate. He carries a longsword whose black pommel is bound with shackles; small, rusted chains run from the pommel to a ring that loops through the scabbard’s throat, preventing the blade from being drawn without deliberate effort. Contradiction: though his visage suggests iron certainty, a thin trail of salt-white ash clings to his boots and the cuffs of his gauntlets, vestiges of incense and ritual rather than battle.