If there is any difference between this man's harsh exterior and whatever lies inside him, then it doesn't show. Kyal looks every inch a bitter soldier, a grizzled veteran who has seen too much of war, but has nowhere else to go.

The tall Regnan is broad of shoulder and has the muscular build one can only obtain by fighting for one's life all day, every day, tempered by hard living and a grim outlook. His armor is much like his body: Well-maintained, but covered with nicks and scratches that will probably never go entirely away. From head to toe, he is all fading browns and washed-out grays; even the weathered skin of his face has been tanned to the same hue as his mud-colored hair, so that the rough stubble on his jaw is almost invisible except in the right light.

If the eyes are the window to the soul, then Maneggiatore Mossfeld doesn't have one. His amber gaze reflects nothing, unreadable and cold as the new-fallen snow of the Sentinels. He is probably in his early thirties, but the small lines starting around his mouth—a product of his constant, terse frown—and the way he carries himself make him seem older. Looking at him, it's easy to get the impression of a coiled spring, or a trap ready to go off. One hand always rests on the pommel of the sword strapped to his left hip, and the fingers of his shield arm twitch toward the pistol holstered on his right in response to every odd sound or sudden movement.

The handler is never more than arm's length from Willem, always hovering just behind or beside the young man like a bouncer would stand guard in the doorway of a pub. There is something thuggish in his manner, as of one who wouldn't think twice about snatching up a broken bottle in a barfight, and his eternal looming over Willem conspires with his hawkish features to make him seem a most menacing bodyguard.