That sort of tight-curled body almost always means pain. Bly pauses at the edge of the camp, attention caught by the last campfire before the ring of sentries. A man, Human, is seated on a rock by the fire, curled in on himself with his knees drawn up, and the length of his limbs means he’s probably tall, but he’s managed to press himself down into a knot that looks strangely vulnerable. He doesn’t have a cloak, but there's a worn pack on the ground next to him, and he wouldn’t be the first intelligence officer to look a little out of place in the middle of a battalion of clones.