Vharun moves like someone who knows how to fill a doorway and how to clear one quickly. He is broad-shouldered and barrel-chested from years of armor and hauling casks, but his movements are economical rather than bulky. His scales have a matte, sandblasted sheen—brassy yellow warmed to amber at the joints—scarred by a dozen small nick-marks and a prominent gadetooth-sized gouge across his left forearm that never quite healed smooth. He keeps one horn trimmed short at a slant (a mark of shame in his youth) and the other horn long and polished. He favors a heavy, dark leather apron over simple linen tunics; when he walks, the apron thuds softly and leaves a faint smell of roasted barley and citrus smoke. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's red woven ribbon tied to his apron strap: frayed, knotted in a way no soldier would approve. That ribbon is the only bright thing in his otherwise practical attire.