Tolen moves like someone who has spent half his life on stage and the other half at crowded market stalls: light on his feet, eyes always scanning. He stands with a perpetual half-smile, shoulders relaxed, fingers often idly plucking a tune on his lute. His clothes are well-worn but carefully mended, plastered with patched embroidery that depicts tiny, almost unreadable maps. He keeps a small leather satchel slung across his chest where a dozen scraps of poetry, coin, and a single pressed violet are visible at the edge. Unexpectedly, he has a long, pale scar that runs from his left temple down to his jaw—an odd contrast to his otherwise merry face and round halfling cheeks. When he laughs, his whole body folds forward as if the sound needs to be squeezed out. When silent, he becomes unusually still, like a bird listening for wind.