You're not surprised by the Ostland accent on a young man with hair as blonde as his bound in a ponytail, but he certainly doesn't look like one of that rugged race. None of his white silk shirt, green waistcoat, gold satin breeches, stockings and slippers would last an afternoon's work in the dark forests of his homeland. He doesn't look sickly, per se, but below average height at 5'9" and an underfed 145lbs would send any goodwife grandmother to the kitchen to prepare a score of dumplings.

His dark blue coat is cut to current Reikland fashion, with a lapel pin indicating he's a graduate of one of the academies. His fore-and-aft cap matches the wool of his coat, and a small white feather is stuck behind a fir tree badge. His gloved hands carry a silver-topped walking stick of varnished ash, while his other hand carries a leather valise. Slung over his shoulder is a scroll case whose cap is sealed with both lock and wax.

As appearance-conscious at the young man seems to be, his demeanor is not exaggerated or foppish, but matter-of-fact, as though his wealth and position -- and your lack of them -- are realities to be observed but not dwelled upon.