Thalior moves like a draft caught in cathedral glass: slow to begin but impossibly graceful when he flows. He wears a cloak dusted with ash-gray motes that shimmer faintly when sunlight strikes them, as if tiny embers cling to the weave. His face is narrow, high-cheekboned, and almost boyish, but a thin pale scar forks across his left eyebrow like a lightning seam. His fingers are ink-stained from maps and notes; the tips bear faint burn marks on the pad of the right index and middle fingers. When he concentrates, his pupils ripple briefly with a faint gold flecking — a symptom of his wild magic blood. Unexpectedly, he has a scarred sobriquet tattooed in looping dwarven script along the inside of his forearm: a childish joke from a tavern night that he refuses to have removed.