Erasin moves with a lumbering awkwardness that betrays a physicality long untrained, yet his eyes still flicker with the sharp determination of a man clinging to lost hope. His once athletic build is softened by years of comfortless tavern seats, but his hands remain tough and calloused from old training rites. Despite this, he sports an ill-fitting leather coach’s vest lined with faded sigils of his past victories, paired with a threadbare cloak stained by spills of ale and mud alike. His unkempt dark hair spills over one sharpened silver streak that he absentmindedly runs through, a rare moment of focus in his otherwise distracted demeanor. An odd contradiction lies in his wide, somewhat charming smile that occasionally breaks through his weariness, hinting at buried warmth beneath desolation.