Teren Voss is a lean, wiry human with a shaved head and a face carved by winter, fasting, and old grief. His severe underbite gives his narrow mouth a permanent, unsettling jut, as if he is always on the verge of biting down on a secret. Piercing green eyes watch everything without blinking for long, bright with severe focus and a faint feverish shine when he is angered or praying. Reddish ritual scarification bands and hooked chevrons cross his collarbones and corded forearms like embers trapped under the skin, catching the light when he moves. His dark-gray monastic robes hang plain and severe, but the cuffs are reinforced with rugged leather bindings. A braided cord belt at his waist carries small prayer tokens, bone beads, and a single tarnished brass key. He stands unnervingly still when at rest, yet his movements are abrupt and precise when he chooses to act. The strangest thing about him is that for all his ascetic severity, the hem of one sleeve is always stitched with a tiny strip of faded saffron silk.