Marrun looks like a nobleman carved from dusk and salt spray, all sharp cheekbones, quick hands, and a posture that suggests he is always half a step away from vanishing. His skin has the cool sheen of river-pebble stone, pale at first glance but threaded with faint silver marks like ink beneath parchment. One side of his face is handsome in a formal, almost courtly way, while the other bears a crooked scar that never quite heals and glints faintly like moonlit frost. He moves with effortless, catlike economy, yet wears an unexpectedly bright scarf of sunrise red that drapes from his shoulder like a challenge to his own severity. Even when still, he looks mid-motion, as if the world has trouble keeping up with him.