Tavren moves like someone who has spent equal hours on slippery gangplanks and in cramped workshops. He wears a weathered half-cloak that hangs damp at the hem, and his left forearm is wrapped in oil-blackened leather bandages scored with fine burn-marks from solder and steam. His hands are callused but precise; his fingers end in faint ink-stained crescents on the thumbnails. He favors narrow-brimmed caps tilted sideways, and walks with a loose, easy balance until something precious is near — then his steps go quiet and deliberate. Unexpectedly, his teeth are exceptionally white and straight, a contradiction to his otherwise salt-worn look, and when he laughs his voice bubbles with a warm, broad grin that makes him disarmingly approachable.