Tuv is a narrow-shouldered human with the wiry balance of someone raised around wagons, ropes, and uneven roads. His skin is sun-browned across the nose and hands but pale at the throat, where his collar rarely covers a thin crescent scar. His black hair is cut unevenly with a knife, its ends stiffened by road dust and cheap lamp oil. He moves with a loose, almost lazy sway until danger appears, at which point every motion becomes precise and economical. His smile is quick, crooked, and unexpectedly gentle, while his hands are callused enough to suggest years of work rather than mere performance. He dresses like a penniless minstrel but keeps his boots polished to a soldier's standard.