A tall, stooped man with completely hairless scalp and face, Tavun moves with measured, almost fluid precision. His forehead glistens in the desert sun, and he sports a seemingly perpetual sheen of sweat. His palms are darkly ink-stained, knuckles rough, and every finger bears thick calluses from decades of flipping vellum and signing documents. Although his robes are of the finest Sulesharan weave—dyed deep lapis trimmed with sun-bleached white—he wears an ochre merchant's sash tied carelessly, as if he donned it while racing from ledger to council meeting. A jade abacus hangs around his neck, incongruously gaudy next to otherwise practical, gently worn clothing.