Drakkar Varn cuts an imposing figure, a Half-Orc forged in the crucible of West Vorus’s unforgiving wilds. Standing a head taller than most, his frame is a mix of brute strength and lean, predatory agility—a survivalist honed by years of hardship. His skin is a dusky gray-green, marred by old scars that tell stories of battles won and lost, while his weathered hands bear the calluses of a warrior and a thief.

Varney’s face is a study in contrasts: his sharp, angular jawline and slightly crooked nose offset by eyes that glint with sardonic humor—a reflection of the grim wit that keeps him sane. His tusks are small and chipped, barely peeking out from beneath his lips, giving him a faintly wolfish grin when he smirks. Long black hair, streaked with a few early strands of gray, is tied back in a loose tail, though it often escapes in wild strands that frame his face.

Drakkar's clothing is practical and unadorned, favoring dark leathers reinforced with scraps of chainmail and scavenged metal plates. His armor bears signs of frequent repair—stitches holding tears together, metal rivets reinforcing weak spots. A battered red scarf wraps around his neck, doubling as a makeshift mask in the dust storms of Vorus. At his side, he carries a greatsword, its blade polished to a dull sheen and hilt wrapped in worn leather for better grip. Strapped across his back is a heavy pack with a few personal belongings: a bottle of strong spirits, a whetstone, and a small token of his past—perhaps a carved bone talisman or a trinket from his mother.

When Varney speaks, his voice is gravelly, with a thick Voran accent that hints at his rough upbringing. His words are often laced with biting sarcasm and dark humor, but there’s a sharpness to his tone that suggests he’s always measuring the people around him. He moves with a deliberate, almost lazy confidence, but there’s an animalistic tension to his gait, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.