Captain Rylin Dorwin is striking in a quietly unsettling way, with a frame that looks carved from salt wind and old discipline. Their uniform is immaculate at a glance, but close inspection reveals the cuffs have been repaired with mismatched thread, the hem is singed by lamp smoke, and the brass buttons are etched with tiny warding runes. Rylin moves like someone always listening for a second sound beneath the first, pausing with one shoulder slightly raised as though bracing for a blow that never quite arrives. Their left glove is always on, even indoors, while the right hand is bare and scarred with pale crescent lines. The most memorable thing about them is the contradiction at their center: a voice that can cut like a parade-ground command, paired with a tired, almost tender way of touching broken objects as if they might still be mended.