Thadric Velloran is a lean half-elf with the careful, economical movements of someone trained to waste nothing, not even breath. His body looks built from long hours at a desk and even longer hours on his feet, all narrow shoulders, quick hands, and a posture that stays straight only through habit and discipline. His skin is a soft cream tone, smooth and pale from indoor work, yet there is nothing frail about him; he carries himself like a man who has endured grief and kept walking. A thin silver circlet, dented at one side and polished clean by constant wear, rests across his brow like a relic he has not quite admitted he deserves. His dark eyes are restless and bright, forever cataloging exits, injuries, expressions, and threats. His hair is black, cropped short and brushed back in a practical sweep, while a faint scar slices one eyebrow and gives his face an unexpectedly severe edge. The contradiction that makes him memorable is the faint scent of crushed mint and old parchment that clings to him, as if he were a walking infirmary disguised as a scholar. He wears undyed linen robes reinforced with hidden inner seams of green thread, and despite his solemnity he keeps one sleeve pinned with a tiny silver charm shaped like a fish, a private joke no one has ever managed to explain.