The Templar is young and fit, of confident stride and displaying only the faintest hint of fidgety indecisiveness seen in the occasional pause or quick clumsy step.
A spell of some kind is thrown from his shield side, and just as quickly his sword is angled to stab right through the gut of a nearby mage, her cast interrupted. Wrenching the sword back out, he swings it around to lop off the arm of another, his motions cold and precise, as automatic as if he were a golem.

This spirit glows a bit brighter among the others, perhaps aware of the attention it attracts.