Lean as a coat hanger, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of someone always measuring an escape route. Ven's horns are short and curved back like a smuggler's hook. His skin has a faint, dusky violet tint that darkens at the wrists and jaw. He keeps his left cheek scored by a pale, raised scar that glitters briefly when he smiles. He wears a dozen little trinkets threaded into a leather throatband: a rusted key, a chipped bead, a scrap of sigil-bearing cloth. Unexpectedly, one of his boots is finely polished while the other is scuffed nearly clean through, an odd contrast that hints at both vanity and hurry.