Sorin moves like water: deliberate, slow-to-start, then suddenly fluid. He wears a threadbare green cloak whose inner lining is stitched with tiny scraps of faded maps. His left cheek bears a pale, crescent-shaped scar that puckers the skin and catches light when he laughs. The tips of his ears show a faint elven taper, darker than his skin. His fingers are callused and ink-stained from charting routes and marking notes in a tiny waterproof journal strapped to his forearm. Unexpectedly, he keeps one eye perpetually protected by a circular brass eyepiece — not a full monocle, but a weathered brass rim that magnifies whatever he chooses to examine. The eyepiece occasionally gleams with tiny dew-like droplets even in dry weather, giving him an uncanny, watchful look.