Lean and weathered, they move like a wave—smooth, patient, and capable of sudden breaking. Their skin is freckled from sun and salt. They wear a long oilcloth captain's coat that still smells faintly of seaweed and citrus; the collar is frayed on the left side from a rope burn. One sleeve is rolled higher than the other revealing a tidy row of faded tattoos: a small anchor, a compass rose pierced by a star, and three tally marks. Their hair is cropped close at the sides, long and braided at the back with thin colored ribbons woven through—a pragmatic style that also announces a stubborn fondness for small beauty. Unexpectedly, they polish a carved wooden whistle and tuck it into their ear as if it were jewelry and a talisman. When they smile it softens the whole face, but their eyes are always scanning for wind and exit routes.