A broad-shouldered dwarf with soot-gray skin and the clean, precise hands of a calligrapher, Varrik moves like a quarry cart on well-oiled rails, steady and surprisingly graceful for his size. His beard is iron-black at the roots, then abruptly pale silver at the braids, as if someone poured moonlight into it and forgot to finish. One eye is amber and sharp as polished resin, the other a clouded blue that never seems to look where his head is pointed, yet always notices the thing behind the door. He smells faintly of wet stone, lamp oil, and crushed mint. Despite his miner's scars and hammer-callused knuckles, he wears tiny stained-glass prayer charms sewn into his cuffs, an unexpectedly delicate touch that makes him seem both dangerous and oddly tender.