Rennic moves like a man who learned to slip between things: his steps are quiet, his shoulders always slightly forward, as if bracing for a lantern's light. He has a weathered, sun-leathered face crossed by a pale, ragged scar from temple to jaw that he sometimes stretches into a grin. A faded map fragment is tattooed across the inside of his left forearm—its ink long since bled but the coastline still readable to those who know what to look for. He keeps one cuff perpetually undone and the other buttoned tight, an odd asymmetry. When he laughs it is sudden and a little too loud; when he is angry he chews the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of lavender and iron — a remnant of a night spent in a convent's infirmary after a near-fatal fever years ago.