Vexis stands nearly seven feet tall, broad through the shoulders and long in the arms, with polished gold scales dulled by salt, sun, and years of harbor smoke. Brine corrosion has stippled the scales along his jaw, knuckles, and collarbones, leaving them rough as hammered brass. His horns sweep backward in smooth, modest arcs, their tips darkened from constant contact with his boarding helmet. He moves with economical precision, never quite turning his back on a door, rail, or unfamiliar crew. An old brass spyglass hangs at his chest, its leather grip worn pale where his thumb rests. The unexpected softness is in his hands, which are careful and almost delicate when handling papers, wounded sailors, or a child's toy left on a dock.