Brother Seln is a narrow, weather-bitten man who seems carved from old fence-posts and bad decisions. His robe is dark wool patched with wagon canvas, prayer cord, and scraps of torn map paper, all of it stiffened by rain, dust, and old blood. He moves with a precise, devotional stillness, then suddenly jerks into swift, unsettling motion like a marionette yanked by a hidden hand. One sleeve is always carefully folded over his wrist, as if protecting a wound, yet he wears a polished silver saint medallion in plain view, an unsettling contradiction of piety and predation. His presence smells faintly of soot, cloves, and wet iron.