Oryn carries himself with a perpetual slouch as if the salt-heavy air of the Waterdeep docks is pushing him into the cobblestones. His skin is the texture of cured leather, deeply creased at the corners of eyes that look like they have forgotten the sensation of sleep. His City Watch scale mail is a mess of oxidized copper and dull steel, rattling discordantly with every step. Most striking are his feet: he wears high-end, impeccably polished calfskin boots that cost more than a year of his official salary, a stark and jarring contrast to his otherwise derelict equipment. He smells faintly of clove-scented tobacco and the metallic tang of the harbor.