Gaunt, high-cheekboned face set into a jaw like a carved monolith, his features seem cut from granite and parchment together. He moves with a soldier's economy of motion though there is a slow weariness in the way he sets a foot, as if every step is measured against an invisible ledger. His black plate armor is polished to an iron gloss but scarred with salt and sand; inside the pauldrons, faint woven sigils of the Astellian ancestor cult peek like moth-eaten embroidery. When he speaks closely he often taps the pommel of his sword as if checking an old companion. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small, cracked porcelain teacup tucked in a hidden pocket of his cloak which he sips from during councils, a delicate motion that contrasts with the severity of his bearing.