Targan is all angled grace and weather-worn stillness, a lean wood elf who looks as if he was carved by a patient hand out of green-brown branchwood and then left out in the rain to finish curing. His skin carries the pale gold of sunlit bark, crossed by faint silver freckles like drifting seed fluff. He moves with a runner's looseness, but every motion is controlled, almost economical, except when he laughs, when his whole body suddenly seems to remember how young he is. One ear is notched from an old arrow wound, and the fingers of his right hand are permanently ink-stained from marking trails. The most surprising thing about him is his cloak, which is stitched from feather-light blue silk on the inside and looks ridiculously delicate until it flares in a storm like a piece of sky torn loose.