Thalior moves like a branch caught in wind—graceful, deliberate, always listening. He wears a moss-green hooded cloak mottled with lichen and patched with stitched-on leaves; the inside is a soft, moth-eaten silk that gleams faintly when he shifts. His face is long and slightly angular, with a pale smear of ash along the jaw where he once blinded a torch with smoke. A thin scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, pale and puckered. He has a curious contradiction: his clothing and carriage are lean and forest-worn, yet he keeps a small, polished silver lorgnette (eyeglass) tucked in his collar—an odd, almost aristocratic affectation that he uses to inspect tracks and stars. When he is relaxed he hums an old hunt-song under his breath; when tense his fingers tap out rhythms on his bowstring.