Othren of the Far Door stands like a man carved out of dusk and corridor dust, tall and narrow with the stillness of an old statue that has learned to breathe. His skin looks weathered as parchment left too long near a fire, yet when light strikes it, faint constellations drift under the surface like embers in deep water. One shoulder is draped in elegant ceremonial layers, the other in travel-worn patchwork stitched from road cloaks, prayer ribbons, and torn sailcloth, as if a god once dressed for a coronation and then never finished the journey. His hands are ink-stained, scarred, and careful, with knuckles polished smooth by countless doorframes. He moves with the patient glide of a caretaker, but his left foot never quite lands in the same place twice, as though part of him is always standing on the other side of a threshold.