Sir Faolán Gauntwood, Lán to his friends, is young. Somewhere between nineteen and twenty-one, the Knight of Lastwall has a bearing about him that's simultaneously weary and warm. Like a candle doused with water but somehow still burning. His face is all sharp angles, with a straight nose and strong jaw, and his upright back and broad shoulders carry the man with a sort of resolved determination of the sort that has decided to keep going despite incredible loss.

These days, Lán looks like he was dragged through a hedge backwards. Oh he does his best to keep his equipment in the best working order that he can, but his chainmaille is stained from blood that even the most thorough scouring can't erase, and his tabard with it's Iomadean sigil is stitched and re-stitched a dozen times, the gold thread long faded and more crimson on the white than there's supposed to be. The shield he carries on his armis covered in scars and marks, and the grip of his bastard sword has been rewrapped twice, the last time in mismatched, badly stained leather.

Other than this, the paladin has two distinct features: his eyes are a striking, vibrant blue, and there's a mark crossing the right side of his face: a single scar that looks as if it were filled with a vein of gold.