Varrin moves like someone who has spent half his life half-submerged: a low, deliberate gait, shoulders rolled forward as if to part reeds. His clothes are always damp at the hems; river-smoke clings to him. He favors a patchwork leather vest shot through with green and grey reeds stitched into the seams. One hand always cradles a slim iron reedpipe—more a memory than an instrument—while his eyes study every shadow. Unexpectedly, he keeps a pristine, folded white linen handkerchief tucked into his breast, embroidered with a child's loopy initials in sky-blue thread.