Alaric cuts a woeful figure: pale as parchment, Scrawny and gaunt, with unkempt black hair that constantly falls in his eyes. Thick, round spectacles are his constant companion, often fogged from his panicked breaths or fingerprints smudging the lenses as he nervously adjusts them. His clothes are threadbare, mismatched, and well-worn, perpetually rumpled and dirt-stained, as though he sleeps in them more often than he cares to admit. His posture is hunched, as though he’s trying to shrink away from notice. He’s prone to tripping over his own feet and is remarkably clumsy for an archaeologist, his hands often trembling as he handles artifacts with a mix of terror and awe. Year 1887