Thelan Voss is a weather-burnished halfling with the look of a man who has spent his life leaning into wind. His skin is the warm brown of old bread crust, dry at the knuckles and sun-sprinkled across the nose. One side of his face is permanently shadowed by a white scar that cuts through the eyebrow and stops at the cheek like a lightning fork. His hair is iron gray, worn in a tidy braid down his back, but the braid is threaded with bright blue thread and three dried wheat heads as if he has decorated a funeral cord for a harvest feast. His eyes are an odd, unsettling amber-green, bright as bottled cider in sunlight and far too alert when he pretends not to be listening. He moves with a bent, economical gait, always seeming to step just after the world has finished speaking. Unexpectedly, he wears immaculate white gloves even while working in dirt, and he keeps them cleaner than his boots.