Tashmar moves like someone who has walked the bank of the same river for decades: fluid, patient, with the small pauses of someone timing their steps to hidden currents. His skin is salt-darkened and freckled in a map across his nose and forearms; his left forearm bears a faded band of blue dye — the Riverhold mark — and a thin pale scar like a crescent moon where a net once caught his arm. He wears his long hair braided into a single rope that hangs over his shoulder, threaded with tiny riverglass beads and a single carved bone tooth. His clothing is patched, layered, and deliberately unremarkable: a moss-brown cloak with a hood, a weathered studded-leather vest, and trousers damp at the hem. Unexpectedly, he keeps one immaculate item: a silver filigree brooch in the shape of a heron, always polished to a mirror shine that contrasts with the rest of his soot-streaked appearance.