Torran moves like someone who has spent decades in trees and on cliff faces. He is usually half turned, scanning horizons and treeline edges even while he speaks. His skin and clothes are dusted with green lichen and dried pine resin. A faded hunting cloak is patched at the shoulder with a scrap of once-fine tapestry. His left forearm carries a pale spiral scar that glows faintly when he near water at night. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small carved wooden toy horse tucked into his belt that he contents himself with on long rides.