Varkhul moves like a man who has practiced every posture from parade rest to executioner's calm. He stands ramrod-straight, chest plated in a breast of hammered bronze etched with family sigils, over a doublet of midnight-blue cloth. His face is narrow and sharply angular—high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and a pair of parallel scars running from temple to jawline on the left side where a dueling blade once bit him. He keeps one gauntleted hand consistently above his hip, fingers resting on the pommel of an ornate, short-bladed longspear; the other hand drifts in slow, deliberate motions when he speaks. When relaxed, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile lifts only one side of his mouth; when enraged, his right eye pinpricks into a brighter, more feral amber. Unexpectedly, he adorns his ceremonial armor with frayed silk ribbons in children's colors—keepsakes from a late sibling and a reminder of gentler mornings. He smells faintly of iron and bergamot.