Tarric moves like a predator that learned courtesy: deliberate, angular steps that keep his torso steady while his head flicks with precise curiosity. He favors long, overlapping robes that rustle like paper when he turns; the fabric is embroidered with topographical sigils that shimmer faintly in starlight. His jaw is blunt, cheekbones sharp, and one ear is notched from a duel years ago. Up close, his skin shows fine, pale lines—like map contour marks—inked under the surface in an old ritual. Unexpectedly, his right hand is always wrapped in a patchwork of tiny bandages, though the fingers move without restriction; sometimes a faint silver dust flakes off when he gestures. When stationary, he leans slightly forward as if listening to distant echoes only he can hear.