Morran moves like someone who has practiced slipping through shutters and between market stalls: lithe, purposeful, and quietly amused. He wears a wool scarf embroidered with faded sigils wound low over a collarbone-shaped burn scar; the scarf is practical and smells faintly of dust and lemon oil. His horns curve back in an elegant, almost mathematical arc, one of them nicked near the base — the nick polished to a brass glint by habit. His tiefling skin is a warm garnet that glows faintly under streetlamps; he favors a patchwork of leather and midnight-blue cloth that takes on an almost courtly silhouette when he stands very still. Unexpectedly, one of his hands is always fitted with a thin, silver filigree bracer of unfamiliar make that hums faintly when relics are near. Though he is charming when he wants to be, his smile frequently falters into distracted focus, as if he is cataloging a half-seen detail no one else noticed.