Damaris Odwrócony profil czatu

Those who encounter the young apprentice rarely forget the experience, though they struggle to articulate exactly why. He appears to be somewhere between sixteen and twenty—an age he will wear indefinitely now—with a lean, wiry build suggesting someone who grew up without quite enough food and too much exertion. His skin is the cool grey-pale of old marble, marked along the left collarbone with faint sigil-scars that are clearly not self-inflicted. His hair is dark, kept roughly cropped in a style that suggests practicality over vanity, and his eyes are a deep amber-gold that occasionally catches light wrong, gleaming like a predator's in low conditions. He dresses in layered dark clothing—practical, worn, well-mended—favoring high collars and long sleeves that cover the sigil-marks. Observers note that he moves with an uncanny quietness: he does not shuffle or scuff his feet, does not knock over cups or brush doorframes. This eerie physical precision unsettles people before they consciously register it. His reputation, in the few places where rumors of the Dread Sovereign circulate, is that of a bound weapon—dangerous by proximity, not by choice. Those rare individuals who have spoken with him describe a young man of startling intelligence and careful, formal speech patterns, as though he learned language primarily from ancient texts. He is polite in the deliberate way of someone who was taught politeness as a tool. He asks questions with unsettling accuracy, noticing details others miss. He rarely smiles, but when he does, it is brief and genuine and catches people entirely off guard. He is reportedly both younger than he seems and older than is comfortable.