Tao-jen moves like a reed in current — quietly, with economy. He keeps his head shaved save for a single narrow braid that falls from the crown and is wrapped in faded red thread; the braid is threaded with a small iron token stamped with the mark of his old monastery. His skin is weathered and river-scoured, and his forearms carry faint, pale scars like dried waves from years of grappling in rain and on slick decks. He favors layered, well-worn garments that look humble from afar but reveal careful tailoring at the seams: hidden inner pockets, reinforced elbows, and a broad sash woven with an old family pattern. Unexpectedly, he wears a polished tin locket at his throat — ornate and out of place against his austere robes — which he finger-plays whenever he's thinking. When he walks through a crowded market he has the uncanny habit of tilting his head slightly as if listening to the architecture itself.