Soryn is built like a narrow cistern ladder, all angles and tendon, with skin that looks perpetually damp even when dry. Their clothes are layered in dark reedcloth and tarred canvas, patched so often the repairs have become a mosaic of different ages. A shallow lamp-glow seems to cling to the silver threads in their sleeves, making them appear half-lit from within. Their left ear is split by an old pressure injury, and their smile is unexpectedly bright, almost courtly, which clashes with the grime under their nails and the habit of speaking to drains as if they are noble witnesses. They move with a careful rolling stride, like someone always feeling for a hidden step.