Tarvaz is a young human man with a narrow, quick-moving face and the polished presentation of someone who believes every meeting is an audition. He has warm brown skin, a compact frame, and hands that never seem still, constantly straightening cuffs, checking rings, or smoothing the nap of his beret. His dark hair curls tightly at the temples and refuses to stay hidden beneath the cap. He moves with small, economical steps, turning sideways through crowded rooms like a man accustomed to protecting both his ribs and his merchandise. His clothes suggest inherited wealth, yet the hems are repeatedly repaired by a careful hand. The contradiction is immediately striking: his fingers glitter with gold, but his boots are visibly resoled with plain gray leather. He leaves behind an impression of expensive color, nervous precision, and faintly visible exhaustion.