Tallon Vey moves with the measured caution of a man who has spent half his life listening for trouble in the reeds. He is lean rather than broad, with weather-tight skin, a scarred jaw, and hands that are always clean despite his work. His ranger's cloak is pieced from river-green wool and waxed leather, but the hem is trimmed with tiny brass bells he insists are for 'discipline,' though they somehow never ring when he walks. One sleeve is neatly stitched with silver thread in the shape of a marsh heron, while the other is patched in plain gray canvas from a cheap soldier's coat. He looks like a guard who should be stern and ordinary, until he smiles with one crooked tooth and a conspiratorial warmth that makes strangers trust him almost immediately.