Tavin is a lean young human with the weathered look of someone who has spent more nights beneath trees than beneath roofs. Their skin is freckled with pale scars from thorn vines, their fingers are stained green from crushed leaves, and their movements are quick, economical, and slightly too abrupt. A curtain of dark copper hair falls into their eyes, usually held back by a strip of red cloth taken from a missing traveler's coat. Their face suggests restless confidence until someone mentions the buried ruin, when their expression briefly becomes distant and frightened. The unexpected contradiction is their hands: callused and scarred like a laborer's, yet they handle fragile moth wings and medicinal petals with exquisite gentleness.