Rolf moves like a man who has spent decades bargaining on docks and in council chambers: deliberate, unhurried, and always measuring. His grey beard is trimmed to a precise square that makes his jaw seem straighter than it is; faint salt-stains ghost the ends of the hair, a souvenir of river spray. His hands are broad and ink-stained, with a pale diagonal scar across the webbing of his right thumb — the price of a ledger that once fought back. He favors a tailored, stain-resistant coat whose fabric has a subtle sheen like oil on water; the collar is always turned up against wind or curiosity. He carries a rune-etched ledger that glows faintly in moonlight, and a plain rapier hung at his hip under the coat. When he laughs it is small and economical, but his eyes — a careful, slow-steaming grey — brighten like a ledger finally balanced. Unexpectedly, he wears a pair of child's woven bracelets beneath his sleeves, frayed and bright against the rest of his formal attire.