Milo Varrin looks like a ruined courtier abandoned inside the earth. His once-tailored finery has collapsed into strips of gray and wine-red rag that hang from a narrow frame, the cloth stiff with mineral dust, grease, and old rainwater stains. He moves in a constant hunched crawl, palms and bare toes touching the stone when he is startled or excited, as if his body prefers the cave floor to standing. His skin is pale and papery in places, darkened and almost leather-like over the knuckles, shoulders, and knees from years of scraping rock. A waxy black coat of cave soot frames one side of his face, while the other side is strangely fastidious, clean-washed and perfumed with bitter herbs. Around him skitter hundreds of cockroaches that he treats like attendants, and the contradiction of his posture and his leftover nobility makes him seem both degraded and absurdly dignified at once.