Sahrin is tall and lean, with deep bronze skin weathered by years in open markets and shadowed palaces alike. His hair, silvered at the temples but otherwise inky-black, is meticulously slicked back, except for a single unruly lock that always escapes above his left eye. His movements are languid, almost feline, yet whenever he stands still, there's a electric stillness, as if he's controlling even the air around him. He is always seen in flowing desert silks of midnight blue and saffron, but wears a rough, scarred leather bracer on his left wrist—a relic from his street-fighting youth. The scent of rare spices clings to him, and his gaze seems perpetually amused and slightly sorrowful.