Ardan moves like a man who learned to ride before he learned to walk: economical, weather-creased, and never idle. He wears a half-cloak of tanned wolfhide that hangs heavier on one shoulder, frayed at the hem from cliff rock and bramble. His face is a map of thin, pale scars; the longest runs from temple to jawline and has been threaded with silver ink and small runes by his family's winterfolk tradition. The left cheek is puckered, the ear slightly misshapen from frostbite; when he smiles it is sudden and quick, more a flash than a show. Unexpectedly, he carries a small, battered porcelain music-box in a weatherproof pouch at his belt — a tiny thing of delicate ivory painted with a sunburst he keeps for watching stars alone. His gait is steady and sure, the stance of a rider; yet he is often seen moving like a stalking predator when scouting — deliberate footfalls, eyes sweeping. Up close, his hands are blunt and callused but have an old, almost tender way of arranging the bandage on a recruit's wound.