A smoldering look, a foot-pinning gaze, easy welcome and be prepared to lose that hand or tongue – there were a thousand looks, and Rolan humbly did them all well.  Likely helped by his half-elven heritage, the fellow was slim and graceful, but perhaps more sturdy than he appeared at first blush.  Hair colour might change with the wind or costuming dyes, but it was always presentable in cuts that could suit aristocratic halls or sharing an ale across the tavern table.

His attire, however, bespoke a finer quality.  While his clothes again varied with the environment, they were well-tended.  A perfectly-tailored olive with midnight pinstriping pocketed vest flattered his long torso right down to the ivory buttons, with a cravat and a billowy white collared shirt beneath – though physical contact confirmed metal protective plates girded his torso, and the chain covering joints and beneath the plates was a fashionable silvery – neither appeared to bear the marks of heavy wear however, and were comfortable worn even below shirts, so a viewer would be forgiven for considering it costuming.  Charcoal pants continued the dark pinstriping down to well-oiled high leather boots, which matched the leather bracer shielded beneath a metal armwrap.

A pair of rich leather backpacks hung slung from his back – casually, but concealing clips that held them snugly, but could be quickly released in dire situations.  The dashing cane at his side could be twisted to release a slim unadorned duelist’s blade concealed inside.

Slung for easy access was clearly the pride of his collection: an incredibly lustrous bandalore, strung for play.  Rich woods sported what must be new strings on the offset handle, and as the cherrywood turned into darker woods or stains, the effect on the instrument’s face was a night sky, with an insert of lighter stars to liven the scene.