Varkhzel stands with the loose, theatrical posture of a man perpetually waiting for applause. His slate-brown skin has a fine texture like weathered river stone, softened by a warm copper flush around the nose and knuckles. Two broad black horns sweep backward from his temples, ridged like old wood and polished at the tips from years of absent-minded rubbing. His jaw is heavy and distinctly goatlike, with square yellow teeth that show whenever he smiles, which is often and never quite reassuring. He takes up more space than his lean frame should allow, leaning across tables, draping himself over chairs, and making every room feel arranged around him. His movements are languid until a performance begins, when he becomes unnervingly quick, springing onto furniture or spinning between seats with dancer's precision. The contradictory detail is his hands: long, elegant, and carefully manicured, yet constantly stained with berry juice, candle soot, or ink from neglected spellbooks.