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Gérard does not chase youth or trends—he wears his age like carved stone bears weather. He has the bearing of a patrician and the poise of a retired general. His hair, once dark, is now ashen-silver, combed back and bound with a bronze clasp. His face is lined, not aged, with the fine creases of thought and calculation. His eyes are the pale blue of worn mosaic tiles, seemingly reflective, and often half-lidded as if always mid-judgment.
He dresses like a noble scholar or architect, in heavy woolen robes of rich slate, rust, and ivory, often layered over a tunic embroidered with ancient symbols—some Roman, some occult. Around his neck is always a short chain of iron keys, and on his finger a ring bearing the seal of a forgotten Frankish court.
His voice is measured and gravelly, with the cadence of someone used to being obeyed, not because of charisma but because of earned competence. He smells faintly of old ink, dust, and marble.