Jarvin moves with a surprising quietness and grace for someone currently confined. His skin, a deep ebony tone, contrasts sharply with the simple, faded red tattoo winding from his neck down his left forearm, the mark of an ancient halfling lodge long thought lost. His eyes glitter a sharp emerald green, sharp and observant. Though dressed only in a tattered loincloth, his wiry, muscular frame speaks of years spent in the wilds, and a faint scent of pine and earth clings to him. His hair is tightly curled and cropped close, yet a single dreadlock adorned with tiny bone and wooden beads juts oddly from the crown of his head, an unexpected tribal flourish. His movements are fluid, almost feline, but his lips often twitch with a sardonic smile that belies a simmering restlessness, confusing the impression his otherwise disciplined posture creates.