Vonanus moves like someone who has spent equal parts of his life in sun-washed clearings and dim, dripping caves: economical steps, a light spring in his gait, but with the slow, deliberate patience of a man who waits for days. He wears a leather hauberk smoothed in patches where years of shouldering a bow and rubbing against packs have burnished it to a soft sheen. His face is weatherlined, freckled across nose and cheeks; when he laughs — which he does too easily at small jokes — the crow's-feet around his eyes deepen into little carved maps. Unexpectedly, his left forearm bears an intricate band of silver-blue tattoos in a twisting pattern of leaves and tiny constellations; they shimmer faintly when he’s nervous. He keeps his cheek-length blonde hair tied back in a rough knot with a scrap of green cloth, and his bright green eyes are quick, often darting to the treeline even during conversation. Despite being slightly short and compact, Vonanus has a presence that reads as quietly unshakeable and oddly cheerful — a hunter who smiles while cleaning a trap.