Talen moves like someone who learned grace in cramped alleys and formal parlors alike: purposeful, with a dancer's economy. He favors a hood that shadows half his face and keeps the other half angled toward the light so his smile is always slightly askew. His skin bears a faint map of pale scars across the left cheek — old knife work—stitched by a friend who refused money for hospital care. His left hand is clasped by a black leather bracer studded with tiny runes that glimmer at night; when he relaxes his fingers, silver dust sometimes flutters from the bracer as if it sheds sleep. Unexpectedly, he hums lullabies in an old coastal cadence when nervy or nervous, and his boots are always scuffed but polished in the toes. The overall impression is of a man who belongs equally to the docks, a study, and a shadowed throne room.