Howell Tormand looks painfully ordinary at first glance, the sort of man who would disappear into a market crowd if not for the unnerving stillness he carries. He has a weathered face that seems carved from patient rain, with fine lines around the mouth from years of listening rather than laughing. His clothes are plain town-lord finery in muted charcoal and rivergreen, always immaculate but never ostentatious, as though he refuses to let wealth become a boast. When he walks, he moves with measured economy, never wasting a step, and his hands remain almost unnaturally still until he offers one in greeting. The contradiction that catches people off guard is his one bright indulgence: a vivid crimson silk lining in the inside of his coat, visible only when he turns sharply, like a concealed ember in a coal-scuttle.