Renzo is a slender, pallid man whose appearance carries the stillness of something preserved rather than living. Dark hair frames a narrow face, with ice-blue eyes sunk deep within bruised shadows. His gaze is steady but rarely direct; when spoken to, he often lowers his eyes or inclines his head as though awaiting instruction. There is a cold serenity to his features, an unnatural calm that seldom breaks even in moments of danger.

His wardrobe is as concealing as it is understated. Typically, a black surcoat over scale-mail, with a tattered grey gambeson beneath. The garb has a sense of age as much as anonymity, with blank patchwork cloth having replaced whatever coat-of-arms must have once adorned his chest.

A buckler slung from his belt next to a sheathed dagger might seem to be all he carries for self defense. However, closer inspection shows an eclectic assortment of small vials, ampules, and bottles tied to his traveling pack for easy access. The fluids within them run from hues of brilliant acidic green to the rusty red of old blood.

At first glance, he can be deeply unsettling. His movements are quiet and deliberate, his breathing gone unnoticed, and his expression has the composed vacancy of a funerary portrait. Yet there is no menace in his manner. Renzo speaks softly, keeps his hands folded when they are not occupied, and habitually steps aside to allow others to pass. He offers assistance before it is requested and receives praise with visible discomfort, as though service is the only place in which he feels certain of himself.

The darkness surrounding him is therefore tempered by a shy, almost servant-like gentleness. He tends wounds with the same patience he gives the dead, handling flesh and bone with an intimacy that might appear gruesome were it not so careful. In his presence, one is never entirely free of unease, but neither is one likely to feel neglected.

(PORTRAIT ART by Christopher Shy)