Maelorn moves like a man who remembers both ballroom and boarding plank. His stride is purposeful but light; he never stomps, even when angry. Skin-fitted leather covers his chest like a second tide-worn skin; runic tattoos ripple across his right forearm in a pattern that seems to shimmer when he gestures. His left sleeve is always rolled up, revealing pale, thin scars like fishing nets on the forearm and a single, circular scar at the wrist. When he walks, a faint tang of brine and citrus follows him. Unexpectedly, his right eye's pupil is a pale vertical slit—an old hex's remnant—while his left eye is a warm hazel. He favors a half-boatcoat with a stiff collar and countless hidden pockets; beneath it he wears a faded blue waistcoat embroidered with tiny silver waves. He carries a blade that sings softly when drawn—more wind than metal. Overall impression: civil, dangerous, and tired in the way of men who have outlived their illusions.