A neatly groomed man whose motions are always economical and practiced. Varron moves with the coiled grace of someone who has spent decades slipping through crowds and shackled corridors; his steps are quiet, his pauses deliberate. His face is handsome in a sharp, unpleasant way: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a scar that begins at his left temple and forks like a lightning mark across his jaw. He keeps a small number of silver rings on his right hand, each ring engraved with the initials of a trading house he once swore allegiance to. Unexpectedly, he always carries a battered linen child's shoe tucked beneath the hem of his coat, a soft, stained thing he fingers when thinking. That innocent remnant never leaves his person and contradicts the hard commerce of his eyes.