Rothen moves like a coiled spring with the economy of rehearsed cruelty. His gait is deceptively casual — a limp he picks up when he wants to be underestimated, a silent glide the rest of the time. He favors asymmetry: one shoulder draped in a patchwork leather pauldron of many stolen hides, the other bare to reveal the pale crescent scar that runs under his collarbone. His clothing is layered in charcoal and deep green, each layer whisper-thin and treated to resist rain and blood. He wears a broad scarf, oil-darkened at one edge, and his left hand is covered in a silk fingerless glove embroidered with a jackal motif in faded silver thread. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small porcelain bell threaded on a string inside a pocket; he will sometimes ring it once and listen as if to check something only he hears.