Khairen looks like an accusation given form: tall, angular, and carved as if from some dark wood polished with sunlight. He moves with the cautious economy of one who measures every step — head held slightly forward, shoulders squared, hands almost always cradling a thin ceremonial staff. His dark skin is the deep, warm bronze of river-washed redwood, and it gleams faintly where he sweats under exertion. Golden hair falls in a single braid that reaches the small of his back; strands of it are so pale that at a distance they read like living metal. His robes are immaculate, layered in sober colors (charcoal and ash) embroidered with tiny glyphs of authority; beneath the outer robes he wears a hidden, battered leather gorget and a simple pair of soft-soled boots — a pragmatic concession he refuses to announce. Unexpectedly, one of his sleeves is always singed at the cuff, a scorch he keeps as though it were a talisman rather than a flaw. Close observers note a faint tremor in his left hand when he is angry or exhausted.