Belorin moves like a breeze through rigging: a sinuous, economical gait, each step placed as if testing a secret. His copperish skin bears the faint, unblended green of coastal algae—subtle streaks that darken toward his wrists and neck, like tide stains. Short, straight black hair is almost always wrapped in a maroon headwrap, the fabric frayed at one corner with a small embroidered wave in turquoise. His leather chest piece is dark brown, softened and burnished by salt and use; turquoise trim rings the edges and tiny filigreed gold studs mark the seams. Plain forest-green trousers are practical, patched at the knees with mismatched fabric; boots are scuffed brown leather with heels conditioned to damp decks. He carries a light crossbow slung low across his back, a plain rapier and a dagger at his hips; both blades show careful maintenance rather than ornament. When he pauses to listen, the movement of his shoulders is scarcely noticeable; when he laughs—rare and short—it is dry and edged with salt. Unexpectedly, he wears a small, polished glass bead on a leather thong tucked inside his headwrap and sometimes fidgets with it when thinking, as if it anchors him to something softer than the sea-worn life he shows others.