Tahlurien moves like a reed in wind: slow to begin, decisive once he commits. His skin bears the papery sheen of bark where the sun has kissed him for centuries; when he turns his head, moss flakes softly from the nape of his neck. He wears a long, faded hunting cloak patched with map fragments and star charts; under that, a vest threaded with spider-silk pockets for seeds, dried wormwood and a small, iron compass that never points north. His left forearm is ringed with faint burn scars arranged like ritual sigils. Unexpectedly, running along his temples and temple-skin are tiny, pearlescent scales—vestiges of a river-drake pact made in youth that sometimes glint when he smiles. He walks with a crooked staff taller than himself, topped with a glass orb that holds a drifting mote of green light.