Tall enough to loom without seeming large, Varek Mourn wears his slim frame like a blade hidden in silk. His dark curls are usually tied back with a strip of cured leather, though a few spring loose across his brow when he moves quickly. His green eyes are sharp and tired at once, the kind that miss nothing yet seem to expect disappointment. A well-kept beard frames a narrow face marked by a thin white scar at the chin and a second, older cut that splits one eyebrow. He favors a dark leather coat that has been polished by rain, ash, and old hand oil until it shines like river stone. The coat is carefully mended in places with thread of an almost ironic silver, making him look both shabby and expensive. His movements are quiet and precise, but he walks with the slight stiffness of a man who learned to run on cobbles and ice. The unexpected detail is a bright red silk lining inside one sleeve, a flourish from a life he claims to have outgrown but never fully abandoned.