Merron moves like someone who has spent decades on creaking decks: compact, economical steps, shoulders slightly forward as if bracing for wind. His face is weathered, with a patchwork of old sun lines and a faint crescent scar along the left cheek where a shingle kicked back in a storm. He keeps his hair tied back in a short, rough tail with a scrap of blue ribbon woven through as a memento. His hands are perpetually smudged with ink and tar, nails nicked from rope work. Unexpectedly, he always wears a tiny, polished silver thimble on his left index finger; it glints against the roughness and suggests a carefulness at odds with his salty exterior.