Kethran moves like someone used to stepping between crates and crowds: quick, economical, always angled so he can see three exits at once. He favors a long, oil-dark coat whose collar is worn smooth from leaning against masts; beneath it he keeps a waistcoat patterned with a faded cartographic motif. His left forearm is tattooed with a maplike lattice of tiny dots and compass roses that glow faintly when he casts; the ink looks raised, like dried salt. His face is narrow with a permanent half-smile that rarely reaches his eyes, and a thin pale scar runs from the left brow to the cheek — a wound that stopped a dagger rather than a life. Unexpectedly, his right hand is ringed in delicate silver filigree cuffs that clang faintly when he gestures; they look ornamental until you notice the catch-plates that hide tiny hooks. When he walks, the motion is almost conversational, as if he's always starting an argument or a bargain.