Oren is unnaturally thin, with narrow shoulders, long fingers, and a rib cage that seems subtly elongated beneath his skin. He moves with careful economy, never turning his whole body when only his eyes need to shift. His skin is warm brown but carries a gray undertone around the throat and hands, as if touched by old smoke. His iron mask is perforated with hundreds of tiny circular holes, and every breath through it produces a faint flute-like note. A long black censer hangs from his left hand, releasing pale vapor that sometimes gathers into gasping faces. His robe moves in a wind no one else can feel. The contradictory impression he leaves is one of fragility paired with immense physical stillness, as though the slightest shove might break him while the entire room has already fallen under his control.