R.S.F.'s dark blue eyes are perhaps his most striking feature. Deep and reflective, they resemble the cold, fathomless waters of Deepwater Harbor at dusk. There is intelligence there, sharp, curious, and unafraid, but also the lingering weight of power he hasn?t fully learned to control. Some swear that when he channels spells, tiny flecks of silver ripple in his irises like starlight skimming across the surface of the sea.

His aura is unmistakable: the faint scent of burnt cedar and ancient parchment, a low thrum in the air that resonates just at the edge of hearing. He moves with a deliberate calmness, not slow but measured, as though fully conscious of how magic pools and flows around him.

When he speaks, his voice carries the cadence of someone who has read more tomes than he has met people, thoughtful, deliberate, and edged with a subtle power. Yet there is a tangible humanity to him, a softness that surfaces in the rare moments when he laughs or allows the burdens of sorcery to slip from his shoulders.

R.S.F. is a man shaped by secrets, defined by discipline, and driven by a quiet fire, an enigmatic sorcerer whose brownish hair and steady gaze make him both immediately approachable and profoundly unknowable.

And yes, his hair is indeed purple.