Fömö looks as if the desert wind has been trying to fold him into a smaller shape for years: narrow shoulders, a forward-tilted head, and a steady, side-to-side gait that keeps his eyes level while his feet pick through loose gravel. His weather-browned face is creased around the mouth from squinting into glare and smiling at children he claims not to indulge. Dust has worked into the seams of his clothes, giving their wool and canvas a dry, sandpapery texture. He wears one neat, carefully polished brass button on an otherwise patched coat, an unexpectedly ceremonious touch for a trail porter. He leaves the impression of a man who notices every pebble moved from its place.

Fömö is patient with frightened people and impatient with comfortable certainty. He enjoys the children's company but dislikes being treated as a kindly mascot; he can be playful when the road is safe, then sharply practical when danger appears. He is generous with small comforts and guarded with his own grief.

Fömö grew up among wagon families who crossed the Serekh Reach, learning early that a useful rumor could be worth more than a full waterskin. As a young courier, he once ignored a child's warning about a dry wash because the adults laughed at the tale. A flash flood took two wagons and his older sister, Ilvi. Fömö survived by clinging to a load of wool and spent the next year unable to sleep through rain. Since then, he has listened carefully when children speak, even when their stories sound impossible. The caravan children now trade him news of missing travelers, feuding drovers, and strange lights in the salt flats; in return, he brings back unusual stones and small practical gifts. Tömür is an old road acquaintance who trusts Fömö to separate a rumor worth following from a story meant to sell a trinket. Fömö is currently trying to find the source of a repeating child's rumor about stones that hum beneath a ruined waystation, while a caravan master pressures him to stop encouraging the children to wander.