Tharvyn moves as if reading the world like an atlas: deliberate, fingertip-aware, always measuring distances in his head. His skin is wind-creased and salt-bright, but his hands are improbably soft at the fingertips from long years drawing delicate maps; he keeps the pads of his index and middle fingers callused while the rest of his palms look cared-for. He wears a battered hooded coat of waxed canvas stitched with tiny embroidered compass roses, beneath which a fine linen shirt remains startlingly clean. A strip of old sea-map leather—dark, cracked, and inlaid with a tiny brass astrolabe—wraps his forearm like a cuff. His left ear bears a small silver hoop with three notches; his right eyebrow is lined with a thin pale scar that angles toward his temple. He favors longbows but wears a ring with a painted shard of an old map, hidden under his sleeve, that he traces when thinking. The contradiction: he smells of brine and leather yet carries a faint scent of bergamot tea where he keeps a crumpled sachet in his coat.