Rinbar moves like someone who grew up on cliffs and mist: economical steps, toes always testing the contour of the ground. He keeps his left sleeve cuffily rolled to reveal a narrow, faded white scar that runs from wrist to elbow and weaves through a faded tattoo of a raven — it looks like a handwriting of a life. His leather jerkin is weather-creased and patched with pieces of different hides; the right shoulder bears a kiln-darkened patch from a campfire accident, the left has neat needlework from a lover. He carries a short, notched longbow slung low and a crooked walking stick that doubles as a climbing pick. An unexpected detail: his grin shows a single silver tooth at the front, polished and oddly out of place on an otherwise rough face; he fiddles with it when thinking. He smells faintly of pine smoke and citrus peel.