A hunched silhouette beneath a threadbare, rune-stitched robe, Thavren moves with the careful, deliberate gait of someone who has counted and catalogued each step. His face is a map of hollows and age-lines, skin loose like dried vellum; a soot-smudged monocle perches on his left eye and a second glass — cracked and patched — dangled by a chain over his right cheek. His fingers are stained amber and green from years of reagents; small burn scars quilt his knuckles. Despite his frailty he carries an elaborately carved oaken staff topped with a glass globe that swirls with trapped motes. Unexpectedly, peeking from inside his satchel is a perfectly clean child's ribbon tied to a scrap of parchment — a tender, incongruous touch against the rest of his decrepit, paranoid presentation.