Serev the Ward-Surveyor looks as though the forest tried to claim him and failed. He is lean and long-limbed, with the stooped posture of someone who has spent years ducking branches and listening for things that move without footsteps. His cloak is sewn from rain-dark canvas on one side and moss-green expedition wool on the other, a practical garment that is nevertheless edged with delicate silver thread, a contradiction he claims was 'an accident of promotion.' His hands are permanently stained with sap, charcoal, and a faint blue shimmer from ley-ink. When he walks, he places each foot with deliberate care, but his shoulders twitch at sudden bird calls as if his body is always a moment behind his caution. The most memorable thing about him is the calm in his face when everything else is wrong, a steady, almost teacherly patience that breaks only when he looks toward the fracture and his eyes go bright with private fear.