Ogmaren moves like someone used to standing beside podiums and narrow boats — deliberate, balanced, and with a slight, constant pivot of the hips as if ready to consult a scroll. He wears a sleeveless scholar's tabard layered over a padded gambeson; the tabard's embroidered sigil is a single stylized quill crossed with a lute. His left forearm is wrapped in faded ledger strips stained with ink and wine; his right hand bears a band of small runic scars in a spiral. He keeps a small brass monocle on a ribbon that he clicks into place when reading; the monocle's lens has a faint, star-like chip. Against the scholarly austerity, there's an odd, contradictory flourish: a bright crimson silk scarf tied around his neck in a sailor's knot, frayed at the ends, smelling faintly of riverwater and citrus. When he walks his fingers tap rhythms on whatever surface is near, like a man testing the world for a hidden cadence.