Garrin moves like a man who has learned to take up space without forcing it: measured steps, a single, sweeping motion when he addresses a room. He favors long, heavily embroidered coats whose collars sit like a diplomat's shield; the embroidery is not merely decorative but stitched with tiny pockets and sewn-in seals of past contracts. His left hand is perpetually stained with a faint, almost indelible silver ink from annotating ledgers by lamplight. When he smiles it reaches his eyes last, as if courtesy is a practiced gesture before sincerity. Contradiction marks him: his gloves are immaculate leather, but one cuff is always rolled back and patched in coarse burlap—an ostentatious nod to the common merchants who trust him. He wears two rings: one a signet of the Velmire house, the other a cheap brass band with three notches, which he hides beneath his glove and taps when thinking.