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Vraden’s hair is dark, that nameless shade between brown and black. Thick brows, the right split asunder by an old scar, loom ponderously over deep set eyes with drooping lids. The man’s irises are a sere gray, and wrinkles web from the corners like the feet of murderous crows. His nose is flat, with a crooked bridge that speaks of old breaks. His voice rumbles in his throat perilously close to a growl, and his words tend to sound bitten off. Everything about this dark haired man speaks of brutishness.
Until he smiles.
Vraden’s smiles, his true smiles, transform his features. His face seams in new ways, folding in unexpected places so that what once seem glowering and grim becomes instead a visage of keen pleasure and warmth. Songs and sagas often speak of smiles that break like the dawn, or are gifted to another. Either would be an apt description of the wonder of his grin.
He’s stolidly built, with the unsculpted mass that comes from hard work, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders. There’s a curve to his spine that cants his shoulders so that the right sits bare inches above the left, giving the effect of uneven length in his arms. Still, both are strong and his hands are huge, with thick blunt fingers. His hips narrow slightly from his waist, and long legs carry him with a relentless stride.
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