Tholamir moves like someone who has learned to step just where a wave will lift you: economical, balanced, and always aware of the nearest rail. He favors asymmetry — a coat with one cuff embroidered in silver thread and the other left ragged — and carries himself with a relaxed arrogance. His skin is wind-creased and salted with pale flecks of old spray; the left side of his jaw bears a faint lattice of healed rope burns. When he laughs his eyes narrow first, and later his mouth follows; when he lies his right eyebrow does a small, involuntary hitch. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's copper charm braided into his hair near the temple: a crudely hammered bell that never rings because it is held by a leather strip damp with salt. The impression he leaves is of someone resourceful and sharply angled — a man who has weathered storms and ledger books in equal measure.