Liron moves like wind through leaves. He is a Cervan with fine, short fur in layered bands of light brown, warm chestnut, and clean white on his underbelly and throat. One antler is a jagged gray stump, scarred and blackened at the tip as if struck by iron long ago. The other antler looks as if a sapling attempted to grow there: it is thick and textured with bark, split cleanly down the middle vertically so its inner wood gleams pale like a polished bone. Thin vines braid through that split antler and produce small white blossoms in season. He dresses in soil-stained gardener's gear: a faded green apron stitched with pockets, trousers with patched knees, and a loose linen shirt whose cuffs are often dusted with pollen. His hooves are trimmed and callused, his gait quick and springy; when he stands very still he seems to become part of the light. Contradiction: he smells faintly of cut grass and incense at once, as if a temple sat inside his greenhouse.