Loras of the Greenveil moves with the precise, deliberate walk of someone who once marched in processions and later walked burial paths. He wears a hooded overcoat of moss-green wool that has been patched at the hem with brighter cloth in places only he knows. His left forearm is wrapped in a faded cloth strip-mitten braided with a curl of silver wire, a makeshift gauntlet from some past wound. When still, he habitually folds that arm across his chest as if listening to something under his ribs. Unexpectedly, tucked into a pocket of his heavy coat is a small origami crane made from a scrap of royal stationery — a leftover tenderness that contradicts the austerity of his bearing.