Varrun moves like a man perpetually half-ashamed of himself: shoulders drawn, head angled downward as if reading a page only he can see. His skin is sallow, almost parchment-pale, with a fine network of faint brown veins visible at the temples. His hair is perpetually greasy, black-brown streaked with early silver, slicked back with haste and never quite obedient; small bones and threadbare beads are braided into a narrow patch above his right ear. He favors long, ill-fitting coats lined with pockets of hidden vials and dried herbs; when he walks the hem whispers like dry leaves. Unexpectedly, his left hand is tattooed in bright, childish blues—an old sailor's drawing of a sun and wave—contrasting with his otherwise morbid aesthetic. Up close, he smells faintly of camphor and apple cider that has soured. He tends to fidget with a small pair of brass lorgnette glasses, using them as both prop and shield.