Thalian moves like a man who once learned to walk on rocking decks and still trusts his feet over fancy surfaces. He favors a half-smile that never quite reaches both eyes at once. His left forearm is wrapped in tightly stitched black leather covered in tiny runes — the edges singed as if a candle were repeatedly passed too close. He keeps a small folding compass hanging from his collar that never points north but instead hums softly when danger is near. When he walks, he rolls his shoulders forward and keeps one hand near his hip as though unconsciously guarding something; when he laughs, a tiny rasp of static flashes at the corner of his mouth, startlingly out of place. Unexpectedly, his right shoe is always polished to a mirror shine while his coat is perpetually salt-stiff and gritty, giving the impression he cares for small details more than the larger ones.