Rowan Slate-Hand looks like a clerk who has accidentally wandered into every dangerous room in the borderlands and survived by taking notes. His narrow face is softened by rounded spectacles that perpetually slide down his nose, while his fingertips are permanently darkened by blue-black ink and red sealing wax. He stands with a slight hunch before nobles, shoulders tucked inward and hands folded as though apologizing for occupying space, but becomes unnervingly still when examining a document or listening to a lie. His robe is modest, gray-brown, and stippled with old ink, yet its inner seams conceal carefully reinforced pockets. He moves in small, economical steps, almost noiselessly, with the peculiar rhythm of someone counting floorboards. The unexpected contradiction is his left hand, which is broad, scarred, and powerful, ending in blunt nails from years of hauling archive chests and breaking stubborn wax seals. People remember him as meek until they realize he has been watching their hands the entire time.