Thadric Veylen is a lean, almost spare human man with the quiet poise of someone who has spent more years among shelves than battlefields. He stands just under average height, with a straight, careful posture that makes him seem taller when he is concentrating and smaller when he is tired. His skin is a soft cream tone, smooth and unweathered except for the faint redness at his knuckles from constant washing. A thin silver circlet rests on his brow, dulled by years of use and polished only where his fingers unconsciously touch it. His dark eyes are wide and searching, quick to flick toward wounds, exits, faces, and lies. He has black hair cut close and practical, a sharp jaw, a narrow nose, and a pale scar that splits his left eyebrow. His linen robes are plain and undyed, but the cuffs are reinforced with neat, almost obsessive stitching. Despite his healer's serenity, he moves with a faintly birdlike tension, and there is something contradictory in him: his hands are steady enough for surgery, yet he flinches at loud laughter as if it were a thrown stone.