Strata-Vane stands like a section of harbor wall given legs, assembled from dark basalt plates, green-weathered brass fittings, and thick iron joints furred with salt. A watertight glass chest plate reveals a teal Star-Sand core that pulses with the slow rhythm of a lighthouse lens. His broad head has no mouth, only a narrow grille that clicks when he speaks, and his eyes burn as two steady blue-green points beneath a heavy brow ridge. A braided hoist cord is always looped around his left forearm, its fibers polished smooth where thousands of wet hands have gripped it. He moves with astonishing care for something so massive, placing each foot as gently as a diver setting down a glass instrument. The unexpected softness of his movements makes his sudden violence feel like a dock piling rising through a ship's hull.