Haldor Venn is a narrow, weather-beaten man whose body seems assembled from old rope and stubbornness. His face is furrowed deeply around the mouth, as if he has spent decades refusing to scream. One eye is a normal gray-green, while the other is clouded black from the pupil outward, yet it still tracks movement with unsettling precision. His hands are broad, cracked, and permanently dark beneath the fingernails from soil that no soap can remove. He moves with the careful sideways balance of someone walking across loose grave earth, never placing his full weight anywhere until he has tested the ground. He smells faintly of candle grease, wet wool, and iron. The contradictory impression he leaves is that of a frail old caretaker who is somehow difficult to surprise, frighten, or physically move.