Vane is a man built like a dockside bollard, heavy-set and weathered. His face is a roadmap of broken veins and salt-etched wrinkles, framed by a beard the color of dirty slush. His most jarring feature is a cloudy, milk-white glass eye that seems to stare at a different point in space than his good one. He carries a constant scent of stale tobacco and wet wool. Despite his weary slouch, his movements are economical and dangerously precise. He wears a high-quality silver breastplate that is meticulously polished but shows several deep gouges from old blades, and a heavy navy-blue cloak that is perpetually damp from the fog.