Jorren moves like someone who has spent decades on the road: shoulders slightly forward from leaning into reins, fingers callused and stained with grease and tar. He wears a battered leather apron over a patched wool coat; the apron has loops full of odd tools and a pocket with a folded paper map worn soft by touch. His hands bear tiny white scars from rope burns and a neat crescent of faded burns on the inside of his left wrist. He keeps his chin shaved but sports a deliberate stubble along his jaw that he never quite grows into a full beard. An old, brass-framed monocle hangs from a leather thong at his breast—not for vision, but to check wheel spokes and leather grain up close. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of lavender and horse sweat at once, a contradiction that makes children both distrustful and oddly comforted.