Thin and upright like a walking reed, Brother Merek carries the aura of a man who has spent equal hours in prayer and accounting. His skin is slightly sallow from lamplight rather than sun. He moves with small, economical steps and a constant low hum of half-remembered march tunes. His hands are perpetually stained with black-blue ink and the back of his left hand carries a faded burn scar shaped like a small ring. Unexpectedly, his collar and vest are immaculate while the edges of his robe are patched with dried mud and fishing line, a contradictory mix of reverence and practical neglect.