Varethziz moves with the fluid grace of a river but carries the heavy air of a storm about to burst. His emerald-scaled skin shimmers faintly in dappled light, textured like finely woven leaves layered over cracked jade. His long, sinuous neck rises to a proud head crowned by two sweeping crimson horns that curl back like the branches of a burning tree—abrasions along the horns tell of old battles, yet the red is vivid, almost glowing. His eyes flash a molten gold, sharp and unsettling, framed by thick, dark ridges that contrast his smooth facial scales. His lean form wears lightweight, dark leather armor embossed with green and gold trims, silent in movement except for an odd faint chime from hidden small metal studs sewn into the linings that jingle softly only when he’s deeply agitated. The contradiction of his quiet steps and subtle jingling makes people unsure if they’re hearing a ghost or a warning signal. His clawed feet move soundlessly but leave faint, almost imperceptible trails of crushed grass or earth behind him.