A broad-shouldered centaur with the scarred upper torso of a veteran and the lower equine body fitted with a carved ash prosthetic where the left hind leg once was. His human torso bears trimmed battle hair, a faded green sash of the guard across his chest, and a map case slung at his right hip. The prosthetic reads as workmanlike rather than elegant; brass bands and leather straps hold it to the stump of his hip and a small, wheeled iron shoe clicks softly on cobbles when he walks. He favors long sleeves rolled to the elbow revealing tattoos of patrol routes and landmarks inked in a looping script. When he moves he does so with the measured surety of someone who has relearned balance; his remaining three legs strike the ground with a steady rhythm, and the prosthetic wheel digs and skids slightly on wet stones. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single sprig of dried lavender tucked behind his ear, a gentle and faint scent contradicting his austere, militaristic presence.