Mordain stands with a languid, predatory ease, always seeming half a step from erupting into motion. His skin is a weathered bronze, stretched taut over high cheekbones marked by pale old knife scars, and across his left bicep a faded tattoo of a kraken, strangely blurred in some places. Thick black hair pulled into a single unruly braid slips over one shoulder, often dusted by sea-salt, and his lean wiry frame is intimidating in its coiled strength. Most striking: his right eye is a startling green, but the left is milky white, sometimes sparkling with faint hints of gold under sunlight—a souvenir from a drowning that nearly killed him as a boy. He dresses in a patched long emerald coat over a faded crimson sash, brass buckles mismatched, and always barefoot.