Tavrin moves like a river: slow in thought, sudden in action. He has an angular, slightly elven face softened by years of wind and salt; a lattice of fine white scars rims his left cheek like old frost. His cloak is always damp at the hem, embroidered with the faded sigils of river guilds; the cloth smells of wet oak and pressed lilies. A child's faded blue ribbon is braided into the thin beard at his chin — an odd, tender flourish that contradicts his hard, hunted eyes. When he speaks he tilts his head as if listening to a far-off current. In motion he favors the right leg slightly, a limp barely noticeable at a casual pace but giving quick, purposeful weight to every sprint.