Korran moves like a coiled thing that could either unwind into laughter or a strike; his steps are light and unexpectedly silent for a man with the build of a wrestler. He has short, tight black curls that glint with sweat when he works — often stubbornly mussed despite attempts to flatten them. His right forearm and left sleeve are a riot of ink: flowing tattoos of wind-swept waves, ember veins, and stylized hands releasing sparks. The ink is raised in places where ritual scarring met tattoo, giving the sleeves a slightly bumpy texture. His face is open and warm, with a cleft chin and a quick, crooked smile that softens his hot temper. Women in taverns often notice the easy friendliness in his gaze, and the way his jaw tenses before he speaks when he’s trying not to lose his temper feels magnetic. Unexpectedly, he wears a small, battered porcelain ring on a leather cord around his neck — a delicate thing against his rough skin — and he treats it like holy water, touching it when deep in thought or when trying to calm a rising frenzy.