Zivrik moves with a nervous, twitchy energy, his wiry frame constantly shifting like a restless shadow. His scaled skin has an unusual sheen that almost looks like slick, worn leather, marred with tiny scars that hint at a rough past. He’s habitually adjusting the glinting silver chains and rings draped around his neck and fingers, adding a flashy, dissonant touch to his otherwise threadbare pinstripe suit. His smile is unsettlingly wide, revealing two crooked, chipped teeth that gleam too-white against his darkened muzzle. Despite his diminutive 3'4" stature, his confident swagger and sharp-shined boots suggest a kobold who dreams far bigger than his size. The contradictory detail: a delicate, faded silk handkerchief tucked into his belt with a moth-eaten family crest embroidered onto it — a painful reminder of where he came from.