Corven looks like a man who has been carved by wind and salt: narrow cheekbones, a jaw rimmed with a month's worth of stubbled gray, and a permanent crease between his brows. His skin is map-creased at the knuckles and hands from rope and bowstring. He walks in a low, deliberate pace, as if always scanning horizons even when speaking to someone a foot away. He favors a long, oil-stiffened coat that smells faintly of fish and cedar; the coat's hem is frayed where it's been knotted around docks, and the inside pocket is stitched with a child's faded scrap of embroidered cloth. Contradiction clings to him — his gaze is sharp, hawklike and suspicious, yet when he catches a child's smile he softens into an almost boyish, astonished grin. He often carries his longbow across his back and a coil of rope at his hip, but he moves like a man who has tried to be invisible for years and failed only because he refuses to stop searching.