A wiry river clerk with sun-leathered skin, wet-looking black curls that never seem to fully dry, and a habit of standing as if on a rolling deck even on solid ground. Their left sleeve is always rolled to the elbow, revealing a forearm inked with faded tide marks, tally signs, and one fresh scar shaped like a fishhook. They move with quiet, practiced economy, except when excited, when they become startlingly graceful and almost elegant. The unexpected detail is a tiny silver bell sewn into the hem of their coat that never rings unless they are frightened, and then it rings once, softly, like a warning nobody can quite place.