Quorin stands shorter than a typical human but moves with the coiled assurance of a predator. His skin is knotted with pale, almost callous-like creases across his knuckles and the backs of his feet from decades of barefoot training. He favors a cropped scalp tattoo of an elaborate seed-pod map inked in faded indigo that snakes around his skull; when he bows his head the pattern looks almost like a compass. He wears a weathered patchwork robe whose panels are stitched from travelers' rags and temple silks; the robe is immaculate in the places the sun kisses it and ragged where his knees and elbows rub. His left cheek bears a faint crescent scar that puckers like dried dough. When Quorin walks he shifts his weight so quietly you half-expect him to evaporate — except when he laughs, which is loud, sudden, and childlike. Unexpectedly, his fingers are stained with the ochre dust of pilgrimage stones and he keeps a small tin of bright red berry paste tucked beneath his robe, tasting it when pensive.