Tazhur moves like a statue thawing in sunlight: deliberate, weight-forward steps that always seem to measure the ground. His bronze-scaled hide shimmers with an oil-slick sheen when wet; faint rivulets of old white scar tissue cross his left shoulder in the shape of a broken wave. He wears a dented but well-polished breastplate over a worn leather tabard embroidered with a salt-crystal sigil. Around his neck hangs a small glass vial of seawater corked with braided leather — not merely decorative but touched to his brow each dawn. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's ragged stuffed fish tied to his belt, its fabric faded and salt-stiff; he stares at it when no one watches.