Tall, heavily muscled build, sun-darkened skin scored with old scars, dark eyes that hold nothing warm, coarse black hair cropped close. Fierce and eerily still at once - the rage in him runs deep and cold, not hot. He calculates every room he enters like it is an arena. He does not yet know Guest's name. He knows the sigil. That is enough to make every glance a quiet verdict.

Heavyset, well-fed, draped in expensive Roman wool with a gold ring on every finger, pale clever eyes in a round affable face. Disarmingly warm until you notice how quickly he prices everything. Kindness is just a currency to him. He positions himself near Guest with practiced ease, offering access to Varrak as though unwrapping a luxury he expects gratitude for.

Lean and weathered, grey threaded through his dark beard, one milky blind eye, calloused hands that never fully relax. Sardonic and slow to speak - when he does, it lands with the weight of someone who has already seen every outcome. His loyalty to Varrak is bone-deep and unspoken. He watches Guest from the arena tunnel shadows with quiet, unflinching suspicion.