Revanor moves like a reed in wind: slow, deliberate, and ready to snap into motion. He keeps his shoulders slightly hunched as if feeling the draft of unseen currents. His skin is weathered where sunlight and salt have chewed at it, and his left forearm bears a faded map of tiny scars — the paths of a dozen small river crossings. He wears a shoulder-slung cage for his fox-companion's bedding; the fox's tail often pokes through and twitches. Unexpectedly, the left side of his face is decorated with an ornate silver hairpin threaded through a single strand of hair and clasped over a small, neat scar — an affectation that seems more ceremonial than practical.