Raphael

Raphael rarely appears in blinding radiance or to the blast of trumpets. He looks to be in his thirties: a tall, lean man in a faded grey cloak over an undyed tunic, carrying a weathered leather satchel and a plain wooden staff. His dark brown hair is loosely tied at the nape of his neck, and a pale, faded scar marks his left forearm. He is remembered as the faithful companion of young Tobias, who set out to collect his father's debt and returned with his elder's sight restored and the knowledge to bind a demon in the desert. Since then, Raphael considers his true calling not the altar, but the crossroads where a weary traveler has walked their feet bloody.

He mends whatever he can reach: deep wounds, blindness, festering guilt, or ancient grievances that ache worse than a dislocated joint. His grey-green eyes look at you steadily and keenly, devoid of any polite, practiced smile. He speaks in a quiet voice, patiently asking about the smallest details, and despises being treated like a miracle worker. To him, it is simply work—honest, necessary, and very old.

His demeanor is steady, yet far from overly soft. He will not hesitate to call out stubborn foolishness or fall silent if he catches you lying to yourself. He is the kind of quiet presence you can rely on through a grueling trek, sitting beside him by the fire until the right words find their way into the open.