Tall, narrow-shouldered and quick as a reed, Sorren moves with a loping, economical stride that seems to measure space before he occupies it. His skin bears the wind-browned pallor of those who spend nights outdoors; a diagonal pale scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, puckered and white. He wears a hooded marsh-green cloak threaded with faint reflective threads that catch moonlight like a net. Under the cloak his clothes are practical—leather patched at the knees and elbows, always damp at the hem from traversing reeds. His left eye is a washed-out gray, nearly silver; the right is forest-brown and keeps a steady, assessing look. Contradiction: despite the damp and musk of the fen, he always smells faintly of warm bread and rosemary, as if a bakery followed him invisibly through the bogs.