Jarek is a powerfully built human man in his early fifties, with the compact, weather-hardened strength of someone shaped by years of hauling lines, climbing rigging, and fighting on pitching decks. His deeply tanned skin is crosshatched with wind cracks and old salt burns. A thick beard, once black, has gone almost entirely white at the chin and along the jaw, where it clumps into stiff briny points after a watch at sea. His sharp gray eyes constantly track movement, even during conversation, giving the unsettling impression that he is measuring every person as a possible wave, weapon, or betrayal. He moves with a rolling sailor's gait on solid ground, yet becomes unnervingly graceful aboard ship, sliding around obstacles as if the deck were already tilting beneath him. His right arm bears jagged kelp-burn scars that twist from wrist to shoulder like blackened roots. The contradictory detail is his hands: huge, cracked, and scarred, but unexpectedly delicate when repairing a child's toy, tying a sailor's bandage, or handling a wounded seabird.