A handsome man in shining silver armor and red and blue striped breeches stands holding a sword in a candlelit, opulent room.

Roland von Adlerstrom cuts a figure that demands to be noticed long before he ever speaks—and once he does, it’s usually to make sure no one forgets him. He is handsome in a deliberate, practiced way, the sort of man who knows exactly which angles favor him and leans into them. His brown hair is worn just long enough to suggest fashionable negligence, often tied back with a ribbon or leather thong when armor demands it, but otherwise allowed to fall loose in soft waves. A well-kept moustache, sharply waxed at the ends, frames a confident mouth that is rarely silent, while a light, neatly trimmed beard traces his jaw—enough to give him a seasoned edge without hiding his youth. His blue eyes are bright and alert, carrying both intelligence and mischief. They flick constantly, measuring rooms, people, and opportunities, lingering a heartbeat too long on smiles—especially married ones. There is a spark there that betrays his wizardly upbringing: calculation beneath charm, the faint impression that he’s always three steps ahead, even while laughing. Roland dresses like a Landsknecht out of time, defiantly anachronistic. Slashed sleeves, bold colors, fine boots polished to a soldier’s shine—clothing chosen as much for spectacle as for function. His armor bears subtle arcane etchings, understated but unmistakable to those who know magic, and his weapons are carried with the easy confidence of a man who has proven, repeatedly, that he knows how to use them. Most his clothing is See more