Davrin Greymarch stood approximately five feet and eleven inches in height, weighing somewhere between 170 and 180 pounds.  His manner of dress was unremarkable and appeared to be driven by principles of simplicity and practicality.  His dark brown hair was kept on the longer side, ending just below the nape of his neck and framing a face that was best described as “average.”  He was not ugly, nor was he handsome enough to be remembered with any sort of specificity.  His skin was a lighter shade of tawny, indicating he was of Chondathan descent, and a stubble of dark hair ran from just under his nose down to the bottom of his neck.  It was hard to gauge his age, but if forced to guess, you likely would have placed him in his early to mid-thirties.  His deep brown eyes offered the only glimpse behind the hardened, weathered veneer he presented to the world.  They were the eyes of a haunted man, seeming to gaze into and beyond anyone or anything in his path.  They were cold, calculating, always moving, and left no detail unobserved.  Somewhere in their depths smoldered an ember of anger, barely noticeable but ever present, which you felt could have turned into an unstoppable conflagration at any time.  A pink, puckered scar marred the side of his neck, likely left by some kind of arrow or bolt.