Vastian moves like an animal taught not to be seen: slow, deliberate steps when listening; sudden, sinuous motion when striking. His clothes are layered in muted reeds-and-mud tones; his cloak has been mended so many times the patches form a map of small raids and shelters. His left cheek carries a pale, crescent scar like a small moon. Under his hood his jaw is shadowed with bristly, uneven stubble. When he smiles — which he rarely does in company — it looks like an apology. Contradictory detail: his right hand is always immaculate, nails trimmed and polished as if for a noble, while the rest of him smells of river rot and iron.