Sullivan Stalbruhn is a towering human lord built like a castle gate given a pulse, all ropey strength under a mantle of deliberate restraint. He stands 6 foot 4, with skin weathered to the color of old parchment and wind-burnished brass. His head is shaved clean, while a greying goattee is bound into a tight knot by rustic iron and bronze pieces that click softly when he turns. His face is long and stern, but his mouth often rests on the edge of a tired, almost apologetic smile. He moves with the measured pace of a man who has learned that every room is a battlefield of etiquette. The contradiction is immediate and memorable, he wears immaculate court tailoring over a body scarred by old siege wounds, and his left hand is forever stained with lamp soot from nights spent in the forge rather than the throne room. He smells faintly of cedar smoke, rain on stone, and expensive ink.