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.