Ruhvam moves like someone accustomed to tight stairways and high ledges: deliberate, never hurried, a shepherd of shadows. He wears a long, slate-gray coat with salted edges and ink-smudged cuffs; beneath it, a vest of stitched maps folded into pockets. His left cheek bears a faint braided silver scar that loops behind his ear, an old binding ritual. The unexpected element: a tiny, living moth—pure white and the size of a coin—perches on his right shoulder and flutters when he is lying or withholding something. His fingers are stained with soot and ink in equal measure; when he speaks, he often toys with a brass thumb-ring that unfurls a thin, curled manuscript strip like a tongue. Overall impression: someone both scholarly and dangerous, a man who smells of lantern oil and late-night secrets.