Weathered but deliberate. He moves with the measured ease of someone who has spent as many nights at the bar as on campaign roads. His leather jacket is stitched with oil-dark seams and fitted with brass tubes and tiny pressure gauges along the collar and shoulders. The right sleeve is slightly bulkier where a clockwork brace nestles into the leather, its tiny pistons sighing faintly when he reaches or lunges. His face carries a neat crescent scar along the jaw and a permanent smudge of machine oil at the base of his neck. When he laughs, he cups his hand over his mouth as if preserving a secret. Unexpected element: he wears a thin floral handkerchief tucked into the belt near his sword—a keepsake that softens his hard edges.