Eryndel moves like a reed in wind—slowly, then suddenly precise. He wears a long patched cloak mottled with lichen and mud; the cloak's hem is studded with tiny shells and seeds sewn in deliberate rows. His skin carries the faint silver-green of someone always outdoors at dawn; moss grows in splintered patterns along the sleeves of his cloak as if the fabric refuses to be clean. He keeps one sleeve rolled to reveal a thin circlet-scar that coils around his forearm like the mark of a thornbush. Unexpectedly, his left forefinger is always stained a bright indigo from a dye he uses for ritual knots, which contrasts sharply with his otherwise earthy, muted palette. He favors bare feet when on soft ground, but tucks leather wrappings when the trail is harsh. His motions are economical; when he speaks to animals his whole posture relaxes and his shoulders slant forward, like a hill leaning to listen.