Ghraan moves like a ship at anchor: heavy, deliberate, but capable of sudden, controlled momentum. His face is a map of old argument and older laughter — a crooked tusk on the left, a faint white scar running from cheekbone to jaw where a knife stopped short of his throat. He keeps his left forearm wrapped in oil-dark leather studded with brass rings, remnants of a river-merchant's harness; his right forearm bears a neat row of carved nickelsized notches like tally marks, filled with quicksilver. When he walks he favors a long, patched coat whose hem smells faintly of brine and ink; the coat has a sewn-in inner pocket lined with velvet, surprising for someone so rough. Contradiction: his hands are callused and scarred, yet his nails are always clean and filed smooth. He carries himself with the half-confident slump of someone who knows how to break bone and stitch flesh in the same breath.