Doran Milt moves like someone who has spent decades walking drainage banks and narrow causeways. He keeps his shoulders slightly forward as if bracing for wind. His face is a map of fine lines and old sunburn; skin leathered where a softer face might have been. He wears a mud-dark wool cloak with the faded embroidered sigil of Willowfen Hollow stitched over the heart. One unexpected element: his left hand is remarkably clean and neatly manicured, nails trimmed and buffed, which stands in sharp contrast with the permanent grit at the corners of his fingernails and the calluses on his right. When he walks he pats the ground with the toe of his boot, listening to the hollow or springy sounds of the fen. Movement slow but economical, each gesture is deliberately small.