Tall and lean, he seems carved from pale granite. Skin shows the faint, maplike scars of old burns and frostbite, white against olive flesh. He keeps his head shaved to a pale stubble and his scalp bears a faded green tattoo of a watching eye, the symbol of his order, inked in precise, mathematical curves. His robes are austere, layered like a scholar's gown but tailored for motion, the fabric whispering instead of rustling. When he moves he is all economy: steps land as if measured on a ruler. The unexpected element is a small, battered wooden flute tucked at his belt that he never plays aloud but fingers when thinking, as if running probabilities through a melody.