Tavren moves with an energetic, almost storm-driven gait, his wide, quick gestures punctuating every word, as if channeling the very winds and thunder Kord commands. His short, wind-tousled dark brown hair is always a little unruly, giving the impression he’s just come from a gale. His eyes are a striking stormy gray, flickering with electric blue specks when caught in the light, windows to a restless soul. His skin is sun-kissed and roughened by outdoor toil, offset by the crisp, surprisingly clean white linen of his acolyte’s vestments adorned with jagged blue embroidery symbolizing lightning bolts. A curious contradiction lies in his fingers: calloused and tough like a laborer’s, yet they often trace delicate, almost reverent sigils in the air mid-conversation. A faint scar shaped like a crescent moon sits behind his left ear—an uncommon mark from an old village tale. The overall impression is of a young man caught between tempest and calm, bright devotion and raw earthiness.