Vincenzo moves like a man who has fought his way into every room he enters. His skin is unnaturally pale with a permanent bruise-sheen that makes him look half-lit from within. Orange eyes narrow like embers when he studies someone, reflecting a lifetime of sleepless nights. His nose tilts to the left at an odd angle, a crooked scar and small silver wire run through the cartilage where a field-surgeon once patched him after a brawl. He favors an agile half plate that is scuffed and burnished rather than polished, and a crescent-shaped shield hangs at his hip like a folded question. Off duty he wears a vibrant blue tunic and white breeches over a whisper-thin mithril chainmail shirt that clinks softly like rain when he moves. Unexpectedly, he has a faint smell of old books and orange peel, which contradicts his battlefield presence and makes children oddly comfortable near him.