Kraghaun is a compact, hard-jointed dragonborn whose bronze scales have been polished to a dull sheen by salt and sunlight — not a pristine ceremonial sheen but a lived-in matte that catches the harbor lamps. Their horns curl back like the bows of old ships and are scored with small notches (each notch marks a watch kept through a storm). The membranes between their fingers carry faint calluses from ropework; their chest bears a jagged, pale scar that bricks the space between two ribs. They favor a faded teal silk scarf threaded with tiny, useless brass bells that jingle when they laugh — an odd, almost childlike ornament against otherwise pragmatic gear. Their gait is a predator's glide: economical, always balanced on the balls of their feet. Up close, the heat in their breath smells faintly of ozone, and their nostrils flare when angered. Unexpectedly, they keep their left elbow wrapped in a strip of silk embroidered with a child's name in looping thread, an incongruity of tenderness against the rest of their hard look.