Dusty Graymore looks carved out of bad weather and worse decisions. His square jaw is shadowed by an uneven five o'clock beard that seems to grow in gusts instead of days, as if even his face resents routine. The long burnt-copper duster on his back is cracked at the seams, oil-dark at the cuffs, and lined with faded green thread that flashes like bottle glass when firelight hits it. His battered hat is flattened on one side and still carries the faint smell of fox fur, smoke, and rain-soaked pine from a Feywild road he once should have died on. He moves with a loose, economical sway, the kind of stillness that makes every twitch feel deliberate. One glove is missing two fingers, and the hand beneath is inked with tiny silver hunting knots. The strangest thing about him is the old-fashioned pair of reading spectacles that hang from a chain at his throat, cracked but carefully polished, a scholarly touch on a man who looks like he was born out of a gunshot.