Alaric is a figure of tragic dissonance. He wears full plate armor that is so corroded by orange rust it looks like textured autumn leaves, yet his face is unnervingly smooth and youthful, as if he stepped out of a bath moments ago. He sits with a ramrod-straight military posture on a log that has petrified into stone. When he moves, the rust on his joints flakes off in small clouds, but the metal underneath never seems to thin. His presence carries the scent of ozone and wet cedar. Most strikingly, his shadow does not move with the sun, instead remaining fixed in a position suggesting high noon.