Viryn stands noticeably shorter than most humans, with the compact, curved posture of a life spent poring over grimoires in damp places. Her almost bone-white skin has the paper-fine translucence of someone who has spent decades away from bright sun; veins map faint blue rivers at the curve of her wrists. Her dress is a form-fitting, low-cut full-body gown of soft black velvet that absorbs light; it clings to her like spilled ink and yet is threadbare at the hem from barefoot travel. The dress leaves her feet exposed beneath the hem, which are small, callused, and perpetually smudged with swamp-mud. Her hair is ash-silver, piled into an intricate coil of braided loops held by a rusted bronze comb shaped like a thorned root; a few wiry curls always escape and tick her collar when she speaks. Her eyes are a startling wet-amber with pinpricks of green — a gnome's clever light — and when she smiles she reveals a row of teeth slightly stained a mossy green from repeated use of certain inks. She wears a heavy, very old branch — the so-called Deathbranch — slung across her back as one might wear a venerable staff; it is blackened, knotted, and has faint white lichen that seems almost like frost. A large, battered grimoire is tied to her waist with leather straps, its cover mottled and thumbed thin. Movement-wise, she walks with a dancer's precision and a scholar’s stop-and-stare: deliberate, then suddenly quick, as if a thought has sparked and moved her. Unexpectedly, despite her mournful trappings, she emits a faint scent of warm citrus (dried lemon peel) and old tea, a small defiance against the swamp's rot.