Forrest Valon looks like a man who has been folded into himself by long years of rain, marching, and regret. He keeps his weight over his right leg and rests both hands on an iron-shod cane, but he never truly leans on it until someone is watching. His movements are slow, economical, and faintly irritated, as if every doorway has been placed in the wrong location. When danger reaches an ally, that sluggishness vanishes. He becomes a blur of coat hems, snapping buckles, and displaced air, appearing beside the threatened person before onlookers have finished turning their heads. His skin is weather-darkened and rough at the knuckles, with pale salt lines at the temples from years of desert wind. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate left hand, kept soft and carefully scented because he uses it to handle ancient relics.