Zarven Telvyrr stands at a wiry 5’8”, his slender frame honed from years of mercenary work. His obsidian-hued skin bears faint silver undertones that glimmer under torchlight, a testament to his heritage. His almond-shaped crimson eyes are sharp and calculating, their intensity softened slightly by a streak of pragmatism. His stark white hair is cropped short but deliberately uneven, as if cut with little regard for vanity, save for a single braided strand adorned with a small iron bead.

Zarven wears a well-worn leather jerkin reinforced with darkened steel plates along the shoulders and chest, designed for mobility and protection. His attire is practical and muted, dominated by shades of gray and charcoal, with a dark green hooded cloak that he uses to blend into the shadows when necessary. Black leather gloves cover his hands, their fingers reinforced for combat and climbing.

At his waist hangs a pair of curved short swords in simple leather scabbards, their hilts wrapped in aged black leather. A light crossbow rests across his back alongside a quiver of bolts with dull iron tips. Around his neck is a plain iron medallion bearing a small, nondescript sigil—likely a keepsake or a mark of an old contract. His boots, scuffed and sturdy, are fitted with hidden pockets, the left containing a small vial of poison and the right a few spare coins.

His scent carries the faint tang of oiled steel and aged leather, mingled with the subtle earthy musk of someone accustomed to traveling through damp caves and dense forests.