Irren moves like someone used to balancing on narrow boat decks and rooftop parapets — light-footed, deliberate, and slightly off-kilter. His face is long and weathered with a scattering of salt-and-pepper stubble; faint burn scars stitch his left jawline into a pale, almost silver line. He wears an ink-stained leather satchel slung across one shoulder, and his fingers are perpetually smudged with charcoal, copper residue, or alchemical stains. His robes are a patchwork of maps: seams and squares of cartographic vellum sewn into cloth and lacquered against rain. When he turns, you can hear the discreet clink of metal compasses and tiny lodestars sewn into the hem — a soft, musical rattle like a river on shingle. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's bright ribbon tied to his wrist: a gaudy knot of crimson and blue that clashes with the scholar's pragmatic palette and flutters when he gestures, reminding you there is tenderness beneath his precise movements.