Silvion Mossar is a lean young man built like a drawn bow, all narrow shoulders, quick wrists, and restless balance. One temple is shaved close to the scalp, while the remaining dark hair falls in a rough copper-black sweep that is usually tied with a strip of old map parchment. His face is sun-browned and freckled across the nose, with a thin white scar running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. He moves with the cautious economy of someone who expects the ground to betray him, placing each foot as though testing ice. The unexpected softness of his appearance comes from his hands, which are careful and almost delicate, despite their cracked knuckles and ingrained road mud. He leaves behind an impression of a frightened bird that has somehow learned every safe place to land.