Harrin Moss is a broad-shouldered human forged by soot, saddle leather, and hard weather. His skin is sun-browned and crosshatched with old claw marks, rope burns, and pale surgical scars that run from his ribs to his left wrist. His remaining eye is a piercing blue that seems to measure a room in silence before he speaks, while the empty socket under a black leather patch gives him a permanently unfinished, half-haunted look. Iron-grey hair hangs in a rough tie at the nape of his neck, usually dusted with ash, and his beard is kept short only because it keeps catching sparks when he leans over the forge. He wears heavy brown leather armor stitched with overlapping drake scales that gleam green-black in firelight, but he moves with startling gentleness, as if every step is chosen to avoid startling something sleeping. The contradiction that makes him memorable is the faint, sweet smell of crushed lavender that clings to him, because he keeps the herb sewn into his collar for calming frightened beasts.