The man before you stands tall—broad-shouldered, with the quiet strength of someone who’s weathered more than a few storms. His black hair, streaked with distinguished grey, falls in sharp tufts around his face. Pale grey eyes, cool and steady like mist over steel, meet yours with calm confidence.

His pale skin bears the marks of a life hard-lived. Beneath his right eye, a single scar cuts a quiet story. Three more travel down from the high curve of his neck to his chest—right, left, and straight down the center—as though fate itself had clawed him open and allowed him to survive. Faded scars cross both forearms, hints of battles past.

Despite his imposing frame, there’s something oddly approachable about him. He steps forward, offering a hand, the corners of his lips lifted in a genuine, if subtle, smile.

"Hello," he says in a voice that’s deep and smooth, like velvet over gravel. "I'm Wriothesley. Pleased to meet you."