Murien walks like someone who has rehearsed every step of a thousand halls. He is tall and spare, and his movements combine the careful precision of a scholar and the low, coiled readiness of a predator. His robes are midnight blue woven with threads that catch light like distant stars. Over one shoulder he wears a scarf of faded battleflags stitched with names and dates in tiny silver script. One unexpected detail is the pair of well-worn leather boots, scuffed and mundane, that contradict the otherwise regal aspect and smell faintly of bread and ink. When he is deep in thought the left corner of his mouth tugs downward, as if tasting a sour memory.