Rowan is a broad-shouldered half-elf whose movements are slow only by deliberate choice. His hands are large, square-knuckled, and remarkably gentle, with fingertips permanently stained green-brown by sap, iodine, and crushed leaves. His sun-bronzed face carries fine crow's-feet and a pale stitch-mark running from the left corner of his mouth to his jaw, a reminder of the first patrol he failed to save. His warm hazel eyes make people feel listened to even when he is exhausted. Brown hair, neatly trimmed and silvering at the temples, is usually flattened on one side from sleeping against a rolled cloak. He walks with the grounded balance of a woodsman, placing each foot as if the floor might conceal a sleeping animal. The unexpected contradiction is that his immaculate surgical instruments hang from an apron spattered with old blood, berry juice, and cheerful yellow flower pollen, making him look simultaneously like a disciplined physician and a disreputable gardener.