Wiry-haired and slight, Rowan moves with a deliberate economy of motion born of years of tending people rather than fields. His face is a map of small creases that gather at the eyes and mouth, and a thin white scar runs from the hollow of his left cheek to just beneath his ear — a reminder of a dispute that nearly turned violent decades ago. He keeps a polished oak staff the height of his shoulder, bound at the top with faded ribbons in greens and blues, with a tiny brass bell tied inside one ribbon that rings faintly when he turns. His sleeves are always rolled to mid-forearm, revealing sinuous forearms and inked tally marks — twenty-seven small notches for marriages brokered or disputes settled, some of them crossed out. Unexpectedly, the tips of his fingers are stained a permanent indigo from a dye he refuses to throw away because it belonged to his late wife. In motion he favors the left leg slightly, as if recalling an old injury; when he speaks, he tends to lean on the staff as if drawing power from it more than rest.