Varis moves like someone who learned to be quiet on moonlit branches. He is usually half-crouched, shoulders forward, as if always ready to spring. His skin is weathered by wind and rain, the kind of roughness that maps a life outdoors. A long scar runs from his left temple down under his jaw and is rimmed by pale, puckered skin. He wears a hooded cloak sewn with small, dried fern fronds that rustle softly with his movements, and a braided leather strap across his chest bears a small carved bone whistle inlaid with green glass. Unexpectedly, his right forearm is tattooed with a neat series of tiny musical notes, inked in silver that flashes when it catches light.