Jorren is a lean, weather-beaten man whose movements still carry the careful economy of a practiced scout, though every turn is interrupted by pain from the wound beneath his ribs. His skin is browned by western sun and mapped with pale scars, while his left shoulder hangs slightly lower than the right. His hair is clipped close with a knife, but a single stubborn lock curls over his forehead in a neat black hook. He has a narrow face, cracked lips, and an expression that shifts between sharp alertness and feverish wonder. His hands are callused, stained with old tinctures, and constantly searching for edges, seams, and loose stones. The unexpected contradiction is his smile: when frightened or delirious, he smiles with the serene politeness of someone welcoming guests into his own home.