At first glance, Zsombor Vardek looks like a rangy traveler who has been walking since before dawn, but the eye keeps returning to his breath. It leaves him in three thin, perfectly timed streams, even when he is speaking, as if some hidden metronome lives beneath his ribs. His dark hair is clipped close at the sides and tied at the crown with a faded red thread. His face is narrow, weather-browned, and calm, with a mouth that seems more accustomed to listening than smiling. He moves with an almost irritating economy, placing each foot as though the ground has already told him where it wants to be touched. The contradiction is that his hands are delicate and meticulously clean, while everything else about him suggests mud, rain, and long days sleeping beneath branches.