Kavren moves like someone who has spent years in cramped temples and high libraries: deliberate, slightly bowed at the shoulders, hands often folded as if in prayer or in the act of measuring a spell. His robes are patched but carefully mended; the inner lining of the left sleeve bears a faded sigil — once a black spiral of unmaking, now half-stitched over with a bright silver thread in the shape of a new rune. His face is long and lined, with a narrow scar that runs from the corner of his mouth toward his ear — a souvenir from a ritual he cannot name. When he walks he favors the left foot slightly (old sprain), and when thinking he taps his index finger slowly against the seam of his thumb three times, a rhythm that quickens when he is dishonest. Unexpectedly, he carries a small, potted herb (a sprig of rue) on his satchel strap; it looks out of place among his dusty tomes and ritual residue, and he fusses over it with the same care he used to reserve for sacrificial instruments.