Hadran wears a peregrine-shaped half-mask of beaten silver that obscures the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks; the mask's carved eye-slits are faintly darkened as if soot-streaked, and tiny brass vents at the temples hum with the sound of his measured breaths. His studded leather is patched in places with soft, dried moss and a strip of feathered cloth, giving him the look of someone who melds into both battlement and bough. He carries a short, well-oiled hand crossbow at hip level and a dancing longsword in a leather frog on his back; when idle the sword's guard turns slowly like a bird preening, a small enchantment waiting to awaken. His movements are precise and economical, a slow glide rather than quick steps; when he runs, he looks like a shadow loping rather than a man sprinting. Contradiction: his mask and studied formality suggest a ceremonial sentinel, yet his boots are smeared with forest loam and his cuffs bear cut marks from rough rope work—he is equally at home in court and in sap-filled underbrush.