Thasorin moves with the slow, deliberate cadence of someone who has spent decades in quiet rites. He carries the dust of the temple in the creases of his robes and the pale sheen of old incense on his fingertips. His face is narrow and angular, a habitually furrowed brow above a long nose; a faint silvering scar traces from his left temple down into his beard where a shard of carved dragonstone once nicked him. He wears a heavy iron amulet in the shape of an abstracted dragon head—its eyes are dull glass, one cracked—and a single gauntlet with plated runes on his right hand, mismatched to his bare left wrist. When he walks he leans slightly as if listening to some internal rhythm; in the sudden presence of injustice his posture snaps upright like a drawn spear. Unexpectedly, his left eye is milky and blind, but when he speaks as a sermon his voice makes that blind eye seem to look straight through a listener.