Edran moves like someone who has spent equal parts of his life hunched over ledgers and walking damp docks. He is usually found with one sleeve rolled to reveal ink-stained forearms and a band of faint, silvery scars on his right wrist where a fine quill once slipped and burned his skin to a brand. His posture is slightly forward, shoulders rounded but nimble; when he walks he tends to keep his head tilted as if listening for words nobody else can hear. In daylight his face is arresting for its contradictions: a perpetually neat beard trimmed in a scholar's curve, and a hairline often mussed by the wind and salt. He favors a moth-eaten green coat lined with patches of dragon-scale patterned cloth—a gift from Cylyria—over practical linen; beneath it he wears a leather satchel with carefully organized pockets and a secret inner sleeve for an amulet he never speaks about. Up close his hands are quick and precise, the nails ink-stained and nicked, and his eyes flicker with a calculation that can be warm or cold depending on the room.