A broad-shouldered man whose presence reads like a weathered rune carved into oak: heavy, dependable, and a little mossy. Halvar walks with the slow, measured step of someone used to keeping watch, each movement economical and purposeful. His beard is braided in the old soldier's three-knot style, but one braid is tied with a bright green ribbon from the temple — an odd, soft splash of color against the grey of his hair and the iron of his armor. His hands are puckered with tiny white scars like fish scales, and the palm of his right hand bears a crescented scar that follows the shape of a priest's chalice — a souvenir from his last campaign. When he moves, he sometimes hums an unplaceable low chant under his breath; at unexpected moments he will stop and read the carvings on stone doorframes as if recalling old comrades. He smells faintly of iron, pine smoke, and beeswax from the temple's lamps.