Soryn moves like a promise — measured, easy, and practiced to the point of artifice. He wears a battered traveler's cloak that is salt-faded at the hem and stitched with tiny silver runes; under it is a well‑kept studded leather jerkin and breeches hemmed for quick motion. His left sleeve is pinned high to reveal a spiral tattoo that winds from wrist to elbow: an old Thalowen maritime sigil inked in washed‑out midnight blue. His jaw carries a faint silver scar that pushes one side of his mouth into a permanent, slightly crooked smile. He favors an old lute whose varnish is polished smooth in the spot his right forearm rests; the soundboard has a hairline crack that Soryn keeps hidden with a ribbon. He wears a small signet ring — simple iron — on his right index finger and keeps a folded scrap of pressed blue paper folded inside the lute's hollow. Unexpectedly, his left eye is a pale gray with a tiny starburst of amber in the iris, while the right is sea‑green; the mismatch makes his gaze simultaneously comforting and unsettling.