Marlun is a broad-shouldered centaur with a weather-beaten chestnut torso and a horse body the color of wet driftwood. His coat is silvered at the flanks where years of salt spray have bleached it pale, and his shoulders are crisscrossed with faint scars like old rope burns. He moves with the careful rhythm of a man who has spent his life balancing in a storm, each step measured, each pause deliberate. His upper half is unexpectedly neat, with sleeves rolled and mended cuffs, while his lower half is perpetually dusted with sand and salt, as if the sea itself cannot decide whether to claim or release him. When he laughs, his ears flick back in surprise, as though joy still catches him off guard.