A lithe, willowy figure who moves with the quiet, practiced slither of someone used to slipping between closed doors and forgotten corridors. Thren wears a hooded half-cloak of moth-gray fabric that seems to drink light; beneath it their clothing is layered and utilitarian — close-fitting leather, scarves with hidden pockets, and a sash woven with tiny brass rings. Their skin bears faded runic tattoos that crawl from jawline to collarbone like a stitched map; parts of the ink are paler where the skin has been scarred. A thin, weathered vellum map is stitched into the inside of their cloak and peeks like a tongue: a detailed diagram of Nivergarde's hidden ducts, crawlspaces, and abandoned siphons. When they walk their movements are deliberate and economical; when they speak their lips are oddly quick, as if speech is a secondary motion. Contradictory detail: their hands are always immaculate — nails trimmed and clean, faint traces of ink around the fingers — while their boots are perpetually smeared with ash and city grime.