Tall and upright with a slight stoop to his left shoulder earned in youth, Jorren moves with the precise economy of someone trained to hold a shield for hours. His skin bears irregular crescent scars along the forearms where ceremonial chains once bit him. He wears a battered bronze circlet polished to a soft shine only at the center forehead, a personal ritual touch. His left gauntlet is stitched with a faded green sigil that does not match his order, an almost shameful reminder of a past allegiance. The unexpected element is a single, small wooden bead necklace painted like a child's toy that he fingers when making difficult decisions.