Elian is a mountain of a man with skin the texture of cured leather and a perpetual scent of brine and cheap tobacco. His hands are enormous, map-like with scars from ropes and crate splinters. He moves with a rhythmic, heavy swaying gait, as if the ground beneath him is always pitching at sea. Contradictory to his rough appearance, he keeps his beard meticulously braided with silver wire and smells faintly of lavender oil.