Roland Gathorn is a square-jawed human veteran with a weathered face that looks carved from old fence timber. His posture remains rigid even when exhausted, but his left shoulder slopes slightly from an arrow wound that never healed correctly. His green sash has been repaired so many times that little of the original cloth remains. Strips of linen, curtain silk, sailcloth, and even a piece of a child's winter scarf have been sewn into it, creating a ragged mosaic that flutters like a torn leaf when he walks. He moves with economical military precision, turning his whole body before his head, as if every room might contain an unseen attack. The unexpected contradiction is his hands, which are broad, scarred, and terrifyingly steady in combat, yet constantly occupied with delicate repairs to buttons, buckles, and fraying hems.