Galen moves with a peculiar blend of gentle enthusiasm and clumsy awkwardness, his every step sometimes seeming about to falter but somehow never truly falling. His face is open and round, framed by a mop of unruly chestnut hair that often falls limply over a forehand trodden with faint scars from rope burns and deck scrapes. His skin is sun-kissed and perpetually flushed as though caught often in the river’s humid breath, and his clear blue eyes gleam with childlike innocence, wide and sometimes unfocused when distracted. Surprisingly, amidst his disorderly clothes and mild bruise patches, his large, battered shield strapped on his back bears intricate prayer-carved runes glowing faintly in moonlight, a subtle contradiction to his simple deckhand persona. When working, Galen’s movements become anything but graceful—he shuffles and fumbles, but often hums softly to himself with a beaming smile, leaving an impression of disarming warmth and unwavering loyalty despite his lack of polish.