Rennan moves like someone who learned to conserve energy until it was needed: a deliberate walk with sudden, explosive motion when action is required. He wears a faded leather tabard patched with mismatched cloth from frontier banners; the left shoulder bears a crude stitch of a half-torn trapper's paw — a gift from his father — while a thin, nicked scimitar sits in a battered frog at his hip. His skin is weathered, with tiny pale scars like old nettle burns across his forearms. He chews the inside of his cheek when thinking. Unexpectedly, his gaze is soft and unfailingly polite when meeting children or animals, which contradicts the roughness of his hair-trigger scowl. When he stands at attention his hands habitually rest near the worn note pinned inside his breast — the single instruction that has defined him: 'You are now the last. The gate still stands. Hold until relieved.'