Soryn looks like two lives stitched together. At a glance: a spare, angular face framed by a mane of dark hair braided with a thin leather thong of bright blue beads; his left cheek bears a white, ragged scar that sweeps from jaw to temple and seems to lift the skin slightly as if keeping a smile trapped. His movements are sure and dancer-light when he duels, deliberate and careful when he reads a manuscript. He walks with a slight limp in his right leg, favoring precision over force. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's paper crane tucked into the breast of his coat — always dry and uncreased — a relic of a promise he made. Around his forearms are faint, tattooed script in an old dialect that glows like ink when he channels his power. When still he gives the impression of someone who thinks he is only momentarily resting between crises.