Dáire Mac Conall is a broad, weather-beaten human with the looming posture of a man who learned to take up space after spending his youth being shoved aside. His graying red hair hangs in thick, coarse strands that never lie flat, as if even his own head refuses to cooperate with him. He keeps his beard cropped unevenly, with one side always a little longer from self-trimming in bad light. His face is all blunt angles and old bruises, with a proud chin that seems permanently set for argument. The skin of his neck bears a pale, corded scar that climbs up from the collar line like a snake trying to escape. He dresses in practical bounty hunter leathers over a faded tartan sash, but the sash is tied with ridiculous care and pinned by a polished bronze brooch he insists is family heirloom. He smells faintly of wet fur, pipe ash, iron, and rosemary oil, and he walks with a stubborn rolling stride that looks half swagger, half readiness to bolt. The contradiction is hard to miss: for all his loudness and macho bluster, he wears a small silver prayer charm sewn into his glove where no one can see it.