Orven has a feminine, finely structured face that makes his usual grumpy expression look almost theatrical: narrow brows drawn together, soft cheeks, and a mouth perpetually set as if someone has just criticized his composition. His ice-blue eyes are startling against his short black hair, which he cuts himself with uneven, practical snips. He moves with a careful leftward lean, favoring his paint-splattered left hip, yet his hands are unnervingly still whenever he is observing someone. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice the small brass frame hanging from a cord at his throat. It contains no portrait, only a square of blank linen worn smooth where his thumb repeatedly rubs it. The unexpected contradiction is that his hands, stained and callused from years of work, are extraordinarily gentle when touching fragile objects or frightened people.