Lorren is a lean, elderly shifter with charcoal fur shot through with silver at the muzzle, wrists, and the edges of his ears. His coat is not soft but velvety and worn, like old wool brushed smooth by decades of careful hands. He moves with a deliberate, side-stepping grace, as if always circling an invisible mannequin. One eye is warm amber, the other a cloudy pale gray from an old injury, giving him a mismatched, almost disapproving stare that turns unexpectedly gentle when he smiles. His nose is broad and black, and when he shifts, the fur along his forearms bristles into darker ridges like the nap of expensive velvet. He wears a surprising splash of bright ribbon in his sleeve cuff, a jaunty contradiction to his otherwise severe, work-stained dignity.