Talen moves like a shadow that remembers sunlight: deliberate but not slow, always measuring distance and wind. He wears a hooded green cloak shot through with threadbare patches where thorns caught. His face is sun-creased, with a whisper of stubble and one long pale scar that slices the left cheek down to the jaw. His left forearm bears a network of faint white lines—old rope-burns and healed cuts from years of hauling nets and prisoners. Unexpectedly, when he laughs he reveals a small, silver tooth cap that glitters like a promise of danger and humor at once. His boots are soft-soled, mended repeatedly, toes rounded from constant stalking; when he stands still there is a restless coiled quality, as though he could spring into a sprint or fall into sleep without changing his posture.