Varren moves like a storm held in check: compact, coiled, and inexorably forward. His skin is weathered from years on campaign, with a lattice of pale scars crisscrossing his forearms and chest from old training drills. He keeps most of his ritual hair shaved close, leaving a narrow strip of dark, wiry hair that he braids into a short knot at the nape of his neck. The braid is threaded with tiny metal rings — trophies from foes and broken practice blades. He wears no armor; instead, leather straps, a sash of battered cloth, and a low-slung belt hold a scatter of gleaming daggers, handaxes and light hammers. The belt itself is an impossible thing: a dark, braided leather piece studded with runes and capped at the buckle with a faintly glowing blue crystal. His fists are calloused and streaked with old bruises; his knuckles are ringed with thin, silvery scars from knuckle-training. When he walks he tends to keep his shoulders forward and his chin level; in calm conversation his hands keep moving through the foundational drills — subtle taps, foot shifts, a thumb tracing the same four grooves on his palm as if measuring rhythm. Unexpectedly, a small, battered wooden flute is tucked into a pocket at his hip, and when alone he sometimes plays a slow, haunting tune that contradicts his warrior visage.