A gaunt, long-lined man who moves like a man twice his age trying to ignore it: chin thrust forward, shoulders squared as if against a composer's podium. His cobbled-together plate is an eccentric patchwork—rust-flecked breastplate married to a shin guard scavenged from a cart, gauntlets whose fingers are slightly too long, and a cracked gorget painted with a once-faded crest of a minor Reunian house. He wears a threadbare black doublet beneath the armor, and a pale silk cravat that looks absurdly clean. His movements are theatrical and precise when he speaks or draws his sword, but clumsy and breathless when forced to run. Contradictory to everything he insists upon, his helm is a floppy felt hat with a single, ostentatious feather nailed into the brim—he insists it is a plume.