Vernhal looks like a tall, spindly silhouette of winter-twisted timber whose bark is scored with old runes and careless graffiti from mortal children. His limbs are long and angular, with knuckles that flare into leaf-like plates. Moss clusters in the hollows of his joints, and lichen grows in delicate filigree down the left side of his chest, like a living sash. One clavish root is scarred and white where lightning split him in youth; at that scar a single, bright green sprout always trembles as if breathing. When he walks he moves with a slow, deliberate sway like a procession, yet his fingers twitch like curious crows. Unexpectedly, Vernhal hums—soft, off-key tunes—when angry or pleased, a human trait incongruous with his ancient voice.