Halvar stands in a dual-pose presence: the right-side stance is coiled and vigilant, weight on his back foot, shortbow string faintly taut; the left-side pose is softer, one hand braced on a tree root, watching a distant ridge. His face is angular with a long scar running from left eyebrow down to cheek, the skin along the scar puckered and paler. He moves with the quiet economy of someone used to slipping between trees. His skin often smells faintly of pine resin. Unexpectedly, he keeps a childlike brass toy soldier tucked into the inner pocket of his jerkin, polished until it gleams. The mix of grim survivalism and a small domestic tenderness gives him a contradictory air: severe and kindly at once.