Thalen moves like a man who has rehearsed exits for a lifetime: a practiced little tilt of the shoulder, eyes scanning three directions at once, hands always near pockets or folds of cloak. He is gaunt but not frail; his movements are quick, precise, slightly jerky at the edges as though small muscles spasm when he forces them smooth. His face is lined by a dozen faint surgical scars—deliberate, white, thin as thread—some crossing features in patterns that look almost like shorthand. His left eyebrow is half missing, the skin there puckered and tattooed with a tiny, pale compass. He walks wrapped in a dark, oilcloth cloak that smells faintly of camphor and iron; beneath it are mismatched layers: a military-cut wool vest, too many inner pockets sewn with different fabrics, and beneath his right sleeve a faded child's ribbon tied tight around his wrist—bright blue, absurdly clean. The ribbon catches people; it contradicts the rest of him like a child's laugh in a graveyard. He never lets his mouth open fully: lips pressed, corners permanently slack but not quite down—an expression that is designed not to invite mirth or sympathy.