A man whose presence shrinks a tavern into a quiet map room. He moves with a measured, almost architectural economy. His chain mail is softened and oiled rather than polished, as if he cared more that the links moved than that they shone. A single, patched surcoat with the faint crest of a riverbank order hangs at his hip; the patch is newer than the cloth. He favors a battered travel cloak that smells faintly of cedar and stale wine. He nearly always holds one hand against a folded, stained parchment map tucked into his breast, his thumb tracing routes he does not speak of. Unexpectedly, tucked into his helmet crease when he removes it, there is a child's small brass toy horse with one missing leg that he occasionally fingers absentmindedly.