Neris looks his age: all quick limbs and unfinished angles, with a youthful face that has not yet lost its softness. He holds his shoulders forward as if bracing against a marching wind, then moves in sudden, precise starts, always stepping heel-to-toe in a drummer's measured time. His hair sticks up in damp, uneven tufts beneath his cap; his uniform is mended with mismatched thread and smells faintly of rain, leather, and woodsmoke. An unexpected detail for a campaign drummer: he keeps a tiny paper-cutout theatre tucked in his drum case, its brightly painted figures carefully repaired.

Neris is eager to be useful but hates being treated like a child; he jokes freely around campfires yet turns clipped and watchful when anyone gives an order. He is tender with frightened people and impatient with confident bullies. When rested, he asks questions and invents rhythms for everything; when exhausted, he becomes rigid, counting steps and refusing to admit he needs help.

Neris grew up in a riverside hamlet where his mother repaired fishing nets and his father ferried people across the ford. At thirteen, he joined a traveling militia column as a runner, then became its drummer when the old signaler was injured. He learned to call a halt, a turn, and a retreat before he understood why grown soldiers kept marching toward danger. The formative change came during the flight from a burned supply camp: his commanding officer ordered him to beat the advance, but Neris heard trapped civilians shouting behind the wagons and played the retreat pattern instead. The survivors escaped, though the officer blamed him for the column's losses and dismissed him. Since then he has carried the drum, and the guilt, from camp to camp. He sends most of his pay home to his mother, Sella, and trades letters with his former tentmate, Hett, who stayed with the militia and now resents him for leaving. Neris is currently trying to find a missing relief wagon rumored to be carrying food for his hamlet.