Tolen moves like someone who learned to charm crowds before he learned to walk quietly. He favors a half-smile that seems to be composing a verse in real time. His clothes always look as if they've been worn through a dozen taverns and then brushed into something presentable: faded indigo doublet patched at the elbow with a scrap of crimson damask, a collar always left casually unfastened. He carries a lute carved with an inlay of river stones and a small brass compass fixed to its soundboard. His right sleeve is singed at the cuff — a souvenir from a bonfire dispute — and he wears a thin silver chain wrapped twice around his wrist like a bracelet and like a restraint. Unexpectedly, his left shoe is always impeccably polished while his right boot is perpetually muddied, as though he refuses to choose between the road and the stage.