Rakin looks like a man assembled from travel, dust, and old arguments. His face is narrow and sun-browned, with a broken nose that healed slightly crooked and a pale scar running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. His hands are callused from standard poles, reins, and sword grips, but his fingernails are always clean. He moves with a captain's economy, turning before others finish speaking and walking as if every room has an exit he has already measured. His dark coat is patched with green cloth from a dozen different banners, each shade faded by weather. The unexpected detail is his smile, which is soft, almost apologetic, even when he is threatening someone. It gives the unsettling impression that he is already mourning the compromise he is about to propose.