Marren moves like a man who remembers the shape of a storm even when his eyes are slitted from drink: deliberate, slightly off-tempo, and somehow always balanced. His skin bears the faint white scarring of salt and old rope burns around his forearms. Instead of the unbroken serene robes of a temple monk, he wears a threadbare gray kesa draped half-on, half-fallen; the fabric smells faintly of fermented fruit and river reed. When he summons his Astral Self, a translucent, ink-blue silhouette overlays his own body—its hands barred with pale, star-like lines. Unexpectedly, his left boot is pristine and well-made, as if kept for a ceremony he refuses to attend. Small slips of paper with scribbled prayers poke from a hidden inner pocket, and a dented pewter flask is chained to his belt.