Dark, long hair is neatly held above the sharp features of
Octavius Lysander's face. Deep-walnut eyes sit with regimental symmetry, mirroring the tightly groomed beard that hugs a hidden jawline. His brows furrow more often than not into a striking V, a criss-cross of wrinkles divulge that his face often finds itself in such a grimace of frustration; there are no laughter lines upon his cheeks to suggest a respite for his otherwise unassailed skin.
A surprisingly physical presence for a relatively slender man,
Octavius dresses with austere precision. He favours dark woolens and hardened leathers reinforced with steel fittings. A long, dark cloak often drapes across his shoulders, its clasp fashioned in the likeness of a fox chasing a star - reminding all who meet him of the ambition, tenacity, and exactness he demands both of himself and of others, not even the unassailable heavens are free from his megalomaniacal gaze. Every movement is deliberate, honed by years of strictly drilled routine, which leaves the impression of a man less concerned with ornament than with function. Octavius is a warrior built for endurance and command rather than spectacle.
Beyond this disciplined veneer, however, lies a sharp mind ceaselessly at work; it calculates and catalogues, as if each exchange with a fellow noble or interaction with an administrator is a military campaign begging to be won.
Octavius is a man who finds little use for levity, it has done him much better to view his life through the lens of order, duty, and consequence. His loyalty is utterly unyielding, though whether this is more to his realm or to himself is question few ought to be able to answer. To many his severity borders on coldness, but he sees it as the necessary steel of his resolve: unshaken and forged in the absolute conviction that a house, a family, a legacy, can be built and made to endure not by single actions - glorious as they may be - but by the consistency and doggedness by men such as he.