Edran moves with a grave deliberation, as if every step weighs heavy with unseen burdens. His face is weathered by years spent outdoors, lined deeply around his sharp, intelligent eyes. His hair is an ashen silver prematurely aged, worn long and loosely braided with tiny bone beads in the traditional style of his coastal village, contrasting with his robust, sun-darkened frame. Despite his rugged appearance, he wears finely embroidered robes of deep indigo, worn and patched at the hems but carefully cleaned, which seem almost at odds with his practical wooden staff topped by a gleaming white crystal. His hands tremble slightly when idle—an unexpected vulnerability beneath his stern demeanor—and when he talks, fragments of ancient runes glow faintly beneath his skin for fleeting moments.