Varros stands with an unsettling rigidity, his tall frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the fog. His skin is the color of wet parchment, stretched tight over a skull-like face. He moves with a calculated economy of motion, though his left side carries a heavy, rhythmic thud. His left arm ends in a magnificent but terrifying mechanical prosthetic of tarnished bronze, its fingers long and needle-like, constantly clicking as they micro-adjust. While he reeks of salt and old oil, he wears a single, perfectly clean silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, a jarring contrast to his grimy, heavy coat.

Varros is a man of chilling pragmatism who views morality as a luxury the coastal city cannot afford. He is remarkably patient with subordinates who show technical merit but will silence a complaining worker with a single, icy stare. He treats his mechanical hand with more tenderness than he does any living human, often seen polishing its joints while discussing the necessity of human sacrifice. While he appears cold, he is internally frantic, driven by a deep-seated belief that the ocean is a creditor coming to collect a debt from the world of men.

Twenty years ago, Varros was a simple salvage diver until his bell was crushed by a leviathan in the Midnight Trench. He claims he fought his way out, losing his hand in the process, but the truth is he heard a sound in the dark. The Hum. It spoke of the crushing weight of the sea and the inevitable return of the tides to swallow the land. He returned transformed, quickly seizing control of the Dredge-Masters Guild. He has since turned the guild from a salvage collective into a cult-like engineering firm that builds sea walls and tide-gates, fueled by the blood of the city's 'expendable' population to appease the depths.