Rhathen moves with the measured, almost ceremonial steadiness of someone who practices ritual as often as he breathes. His bronze scales catch light like hammered metal, but are scratched and dulled at the shoulders and knees where travel and scrapes have worn them. He wears a scarred half-helm slung at his hip rather than on his head, revealing a jagged silvered ridge on his brow — the remnant of a battle in which he failed to save a comrade. His pauldrons are engraved with the sigil of his order, a coiled wave around a sun, but a stitched patch over one wave marks the clandestine repairs he made with thread stolen from a traveling tailor. Unexpectedly, he favors a faded green traveler's scarf tucked beneath his armor, embroidered with childish runes from his younger sister. When he walks, his tail sways in short, confident arcs; when listening, he inclines his head like a hound catching scent.