A tall, alert figure who moves like a shadow that learned to smile. Jared stands with a casual readiness: shoulders back, head tilted as if listening for a door that might open without sound. His straight black hair brushes his broad collarbones in shoulder-length strands that he frequently tucks behind one ear; a thick mutton-chop beard frames his jaw and nearly meets at a neat line below his chin. The sleeveless studded black leather fits like second skin and shows the muscles of someone who climbs and fights for a living; over it he wears a heavy, fur-lined cloak whose hood is often up even indoors. The cloak's fur, from a northland predator, is coarse and mismatched — one patch bleached by sun, another black as night — and the hem is embroidered with a tiny, almost childish sigil made from old city coin threads. Contradiction marks him: his hands, surprisingly clean and manicured, belie the grime of his life, and the obsidian demi-gauntlets he wears look archaic and arcane but fit like practical tools. He often moves with long, graceful strides and a habit of pausing mid-step to tuck the tip of his tongue between his teeth when thinking.