Edran moves like someone used to walking muddy roads at dawn: economical, patient, and quietly purposeful. His skin is flecked with faint white scars from needle pricks and ritual burns on his forearms, and his hands are callused in a way that makes them seem almost paradoxically gentle. He wears a short cropped beard that he trims into a tidy crescent below his jaw, but one eyebrow is shaved in a ritual notch he refuses to explain. He keeps a prayer-bead cord coiled at his hip and a battered iron holy-symbol brazier slung from his shoulder. When he walks among the ill or injured he inclines his head as if listening to a distant whisper; when he walks in town he scans faces as if cataloguing debts—both spiritual and social. Unexpectedly, he hums bawdy tavern tunes when mending wounds, a habit that jars with his reverent bearing.