Tarrison Ivy is lean and sharply put together, with the look of a man who has slept in armor more often than in beds. His dark features are weathered by sun, smoke, and old rain, and his hands are scarred in the precise places where a grip fails under stress. He moves with a predator's economy, every motion pared down to necessity, yet there is an odd softness in the way he straightens fallen papers or smooths a wrinkled sleeve before entering a room. He wears a half-polished military coat over practical leathers, but the coat lining is stitched with tiny riverflowers, a private rebellion against the life that made him. A silver bounty brand on his left collarbone has been mostly cut away, leaving a pale crescent like a second throat.