An imposing man in his mid-60s, Geoffrey De Moley is tall and broad-shouldered despite his age. His hair is gray, close-cropped, and his lined face bears a full beard that has gone nearly white. His eyes are dark and thoughtful; in his youth, perhaps, they flashed with fire, but now they show the tiredness of age. His hands, while wrinkled, still have power in their grip, and his movements are slow but deliberate. Even as an old man, he radiates a sort of regal strength.
He is dressed in a simple tabard over a suit of close-fitting mail, the links forged from some light composite that shines like silver. His tabard is pure white with a jumpgate cross in gold, the mark of the Holy City, though a small escutcheon at his left shoulder bears the De Moley rose in gold on blue. A broad-bladed longsword is thrust through a looped leather belt, its wire-wrapped hilt well worn with use.