Hasko moves with a foxlike, cautious grace unusual for a human his age — compact steps, quick head-tilts, and an ever-alert flank of his cloak that twitches when he smells danger. His weathered face is creased by a thousand small smiles and wary frowns; a thin scar bisects his left eyebrow like a punctuation mark. He wears a high-collared travel cloak pinned awkwardly off-center (a habit from hurried saddle adjustments), over polished but scuffed plate. When he walks he keeps one hand near the crate that contains the baby giant, as if resisting the urge to count its breaths. Unexpectedly, he carries a child's ragged wooden fox puppet tucked beneath his pauldrons — he sometimes uses it to soothe the giant infant, singing a low, oddly gentle lullaby beneath his breath.