Halven looks like someone who has spent decades among parchment and stone. He stands with a straight back but moves with a slow, deliberate economy. His skin is creased by fine maps of worry and concentration rather than sun. He wears a long, slate gray robe threaded with faint silver sigils that catch light like a ledger's edge. Over the robe he carries a broad leather sash filled with small pouches, slips of paper, and stamped seals. His left hand bears a battered iron ring with a carved sigil used in containment rites. When he reaches for a book his fingers never touch the pages until he hums a low phrase and the book opens willingly. Unexpected element: tucked into his inner robe is a bright red woolen child's mitten that does not match his austere attire and seems to absorb ambient sound.