Myren Vale moves like a man trying not to disturb a sleeping forest, each step soft and deliberate, yet there is a sudden, unsettling precision to the way he turns his head as if he hears roots speaking under stone. His skin is sun-browned and weathered like old bark polished by rain, crossed at the knuckles with pale seams that resemble healed cracks in wood. He wears a moss-dark cloak sewn with feather charms and dried seedpods, but beneath it is a tailored waistcoat of deep blue velvet that looks absurdly refined for a wanderer of the wilds. His left sleeve is always damp, as though newly dipped in river water, while his right hand is permanently dusted with gray ash. The contradictory impression he leaves is of a courtly scholar who has been half-claimed by an ancient tree.