Roven moves like a man who has spent more time slipping between pines than walking city streets. He wears a forest-green hood left loose so damp needles gather on his shoulders. His left forearm is wrapped in many thin leather bands scored with small charcoal marks, each mark a mapped trail he has walked. A faint white scar arcs from temple to jaw where a bear's swipe tore through skin and hair long ago. He favors quiet, economical movements, but when he laughs the grin splits his face wide and a small silver tooth glints near his canine. Unexpectedly he keeps a bright linen handkerchief, embroidered with city tavern names, folded and tucked inside a quiver — an odd flourish for someone who carries only necessities.