Gharun stands like a story sketched in ink and coal: broad-shouldered and slightly stooped from years leaning over a bar, he moves with a surprising economy — the gait of someone who thinks two moves ahead. His skin has the gray-green wash common to his people, but one forearm is ink-dark from spilled porter and a burned patch of scar tissue shaped like a crescent moon. He wears a stained leather apron peppered with patches and pockets; tucked into a hidden sheath at his ribs is a dull, battered greataxe whose haft is wrapped with strips of an old sailor's flag. When he smiles — a slow, disarming crescent that shows a chipped tusk — his whole face softens, then the habit of watchfulness returns like a tide. Unexpectedly, he keeps a sprig of lavender in his ear that smells of soap and summer, at odds with the smoke, beer, and iron that otherwise cling to him.