Taven moves with the gruff confidence of a seasoned street cop, but his tired, jittery glances betray an inner turmoil. His face is weathered, with deep laugh lines unexpectedly betraying a history of camaraderie, but these are marred by the permanent furrow between his brows. His once jet-black hair is heavily streaked with silver at the temples, slicked back but often slightly disheveled as if he’s just run his hands through it in frustration. His eyes—a sharp, pale steel gray—flash with both suspicion and desperation, sometimes darting away nervously. He wears the heavy, polished breastplate of the Adderport Watch with a careless looseness, as if his attention is often elsewhere. Contrasting the formal armor, he sports an unrefined, crumpled crimson scarf, a memento of his late brother and inconsistent luck in cards. When he walks, his steps are measured, but with occasional sudden shuffles, a subtle sign of hidden anxiety.