Kessan moves like a shadow that remembers something joyful — quick, economical, and always scanning for an exit. He is lean, with long-fingered hands that look more like an artisan's tools than a pickpocket's. He wears a battered, charcoal-gray hooded jacket whose inside is patched with bright, impossible scraps of silk; the inner lining is always oddly pristine. A faint silver burn scar arcs down his left cheek, almost decorative in its curve. When he walks he favors the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, as if perpetually ready to spring. Unexpectedly, his left sleeve is cuffed with a child's woolen bracelet — a gaudy knot of crimson and blue yarn that clings to him like a relic.