A rangy human man with a long-backed, loose-limbed posture and the wary stillness of someone who expects the ground to move beneath him. He walks with his left foot turned slightly outward, not from injury, but from years of crossing submerged roots and mud shelves. His skin is sun-browned across the forehead and hands, while the rest of him carries a faint gray-green cast from constant exposure to marsh water and peat smoke. His dark hair hangs in damp, uneven ropes that curl at the ends no matter how often he cuts it. His beard is sparse except along the jaw, where it grows in a soft copper-brown fringe. He smells of crushed mint, wet leather, and old campfire. The unexpected contradiction is his hands: broad, callused, and visibly made for drawing a bow, yet he handles fragile insects, eggshells, and fine glass with almost absurd delicacy. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice that he occupies less space than his height should allow, leaning toward walls, doorframes, or trees as if apologizing to the room for being in it.