Draven stands just over 5'9" with a slouched, almost defeated posture. His skin is ruddy and patchy with dirt smudges that never fully wash off. His short brown hair lies askew like strands of dry straw, and his face carries the stubble of several days, mismatched with streaks of soot and dried sweat. His eyes, a sharp hazel flecked with gold, are dull yet flicker with sudden sparkles of curiosity, as if his mind races faster than his weary body allows. His movements are slow and deliberate, like a man conserving energy but ready to snap when needed. He wears a worn dark olive army jacket faded from rain and sun, a loose striped tie slipping off an unbuttoned collar of a once-white shirt smeared with chemical stains, and faded blue jeans fraying at the cuffs. Surprisingly, under one arm he clutches a battered leather-bound notebook covered in scribbles and stains—the chaotic epicenter of his thoughts. His right hand bears a careless smudge of ink on the knuckle, contradictory to his usually meticulous notes, suggesting an underlying tension with his own rigor.