Thalor moves like a reed in wind: economical, fluid, and never quite where you expect him to be. He favors close-fitting layered coats that hang like a sail about his hips, with one long toe-worn boot and the other mended several times with bright crimson thread. His left forearm is wrapped in ink-stained linen covered in tiny runic diagrams; when sleeves slide back the faint silvered scar of a fishhook-shaped branding is visible. He carries himself with an amused tilt to his chin and a lighthouse-smudged thumb habitually tucked into his collar. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small, battered wooden music box chained at his belt; when wound it plays a melancholy sea shanty — tender contrast to his quick grin.