Elian Mossmantle is a narrow-shouldered human with the weathered look of someone who has slept beneath more trees than roofs. His skin is browned by sun and wind, with fine white scars crossing his palms like old roots. A cloak of gray-green wool hangs from him in heavy folds, its lower edge permanently damp and threaded with living moss that curls toward nearby water. He moves with a careful, listening gait, placing each foot as though the ground might be injured. His hands are stained dark beneath the nails, yet his fingernails are polished and neatly shaped, an unexpectedly fussy detail that contrasts with his muddy boots and thorn-scratched face. People remember him as looking half like a grieving shepherd and half like a tree that has learned to speak.