Talen moves like someone who has spent years performing on crowded stages and in cramped taverns: fluid, theatrical, and always with an eye on exits. He wears a midnight-blue frock coat embroidered with faded silver filigree shaped like leaves — a subtle nod to his Lorien ancestry — and a well-worn leather bandolier where he keeps inks, a folded map, and a thin whetstone. His left sleeve is pinned and tightly rolled, revealing a pale, jagged scar that runs from wrist to elbow, riddled with silver-white puckered lines. One glove is fingerless, the other immaculate, as if he only ever dirties half of himself by design. When still, he tilts his head slightly to the left, as if listening for applause that isn't there. Contradictorily, despite his elegant bearing and careful grooming, his boots are patched in mismatched leather and smell faintly of sea brine.