Brenn is a man of soil and seasons. His skin is weathered into a patchwork of tight lines and soft, sun-darkened planes; the palm of his left hand is callused nearly to the finger joints. He moves with the compact, economical gait of someone who spends his life lifting weight and reading the lay of the land. His beard is cropped short but stubborn, threaded with gray at the chin, and he wears a strip of braided spruce root wound around his wrist like a bracelet. An unexpected element: he favors a bright blue wool scarf, immaculate and improbably clean, tied under his jaw like a boast of color against the forest browns. When he walks he tends to tilt his head as if listening to a rhythm only he can hear.