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Tolv Mora had a story he used to tell about coming from a farm somewhere north of Farhaven, a tiny farm on the borders of a small village, the most boring place imaginable that he couldn't wait to leave. He doesn't tell that story anymore. In truth, he doesn't tell many stories anymore.

Slow or lightning quick, every move seems deliberate, measured, which contrasts jarringly with a frenetic sort of energy that seems only just contained, even when he's relaxed and holding still. He has what could become a beard in theory, but it's more of a rough scraggle than anything else, the kind that comes from not shaving for a week or so. His eyes are brown and largely unremarkable, but they seem utterly without warmth. There are a few scars, especially on the backs of his hands and along his arms, but they're old and well healed. His build is rangy, the kind of build one might expect to find on someone well practiced in the art of climbing. Or running.

His is a cold rage, and it permeates everything about him. There's confidence, yes, but one rooted in withheld violence, a certainty that, should things go wrong, he's the one likely to have the upper hand, and should things go poorly in that, there's little to fear. That may be the most unnerving thing about the man; there's no fear, but not in any way that might feel comforting. It's the fearlessness of a creature who not only believes he has nothing to lose, but who has never had anything to lose in the first place.