Sir Gavran stands just over six feet, his broad frame packed with tense, lean muscle knotting beneath battered scale mail. His sun-darkened skin is webbed with pale scars, especially on his hands and forearms. His hair is a mass of jet-black, shoulder-length curls—a sharp contrast to the streak of silver running over his right temple, a wound's legacy. His eyes are glacial blue but flicker with an unsettling, fever-bright intensity—sometimes seeming almost colorless in dim light. His armor and cloak, once resplendent, are rain-bleached and stained, but every buckle is fastidiously buckled. Despite his brute presence, his movement is restless—his fists clenching and unclenching, his head snapping at unseen noises. Unexpectedly, an ornate locket of delicate filigree dangles from his neck, at odds with the rest of his harsh, utilitarian attire.