Corren carries the look of a scholar who has spent equal hours on stormy towers and tavern benches. He moves with a deliberate, slightly bent stride as if balancing a thought on his shoulders. His robe is patched where a sleeve once singed, and the fabric over his left shoulder is darker where ink and old blood dried. He favors a narrow-brimmed weathered hat whose underside is stitched with tiny celestial sigils. Unexpected element: when relaxed he absentmindedly taps a rhythm on his teeth with the tip of a copper coin, a nervous habit that sounds almost musical.