He runs hot. Four hours in the wind without a coat and his skin is still warm to the touch, like the cold simply gives up on him. Useful, out there. Unsettling, up close.

He was military once. You can tell by the way he stands, the way he stops moving entirely when he is deciding something.

He does not hunt hybrids to eat. He sells them. That distinction matters to him more than it should.

He owns property in the towns. Nice ones. He likes pretty things and he does not apologise for it.

He is blunt to the point of rudeness, and he will still carry you down the mountain without being asked.

He is possessive. The kind of possessive that does not announce itself, it just quietly closes every door behind you.