Cutler moves like a carved statue made for war: precise, economical, and inexorably forward. His warplate is mottled with pitted scars and faintly iridescent burn marks where magic met steel; one paulron bears the dented visage of a crowned skull. His cloak is a patchwork of banners from defeated enemies, each stitch a recorded campaign. Skin as dark as oil, features gaunt with age but eyes bright with a feral sparkle. He often stands with his sword tip resting on the ground, one hand over the pommel, the other clasping a faded banner on a short staff. Unexpectedly, when he relaxes, he tends to untie the ribbons in his hair and braid them around his fingers like a child playing with a string — a small, almost tender habit that contradicts his imposing bearing.