Thalrek moves as if walking on a rolling deck even when the ground is flat: a slight, deliberate sway and a readiness to catch himself. He favors one shoulder — always subtly raised — as though listening to something only he can hear. His left forearm is wrapped in a strip of storm-dark leather inlaid with tiny mother-of-pearl chips that glint like fish scales. He keeps his pact blade slung across his back in a scabbard of woven rope and patched sailcloth. In sunlight his skin looks brackish, like driftwood rain on a tidepool; at dusk his face takes on the sharp angles of someone carved by wind and salt. Unexpectedly, his left eye is a pale, almost luminescent silver while the right is a warm sea-glass green, and his grin tends to reveal a single gold tooth capped in the front.