Thadric is a lean half-elf with the quiet, tension-worn look of someone who has spent too many nights in infirmaries and too many dawns over prayer books. He stands just under average height, all narrow shoulders and economical movement, as if he has learned to conserve both energy and attention. His skin is a soft cream tone, pale but healthy, with the faint translucence of indoor light rather than weakness. His black hair is kept short and practical, but a few uneven strands always escape near his temples no matter how carefully he combs them. A thin silver circlet rests across his brow, old enough to have lost its shine in places, and it catches candlelight like a knife edge. His face is sharp-boned with a straight nose, a stubborn jaw, and a small scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. His dark eyes are restless and searching, yet his mouth is usually set in a calm, almost severe line. He wears an undyed linen healer's robe over a fitted undertunic, with a leather belt crowded by pouches, stitched packets of herbs, vials, wax-sealed needles, and folded bandages. The contradiction that people remember most is that his hands are surgeon-steady while his shoulders stay subtly hunched, as if he expects the world to strike first and explain itself later.