Rauven moves like someone who learned how to fight on rolling decks and in narrow alleys: lithe, deliberate, and always balanced on the balls of his feet. His skin has a dark, salt-bronzed tone with fine silver scars like fishbones along his left forearm. Two short, ridged horns curl back from his temples and are wrapped in battered lengths of blue-black sailcloth. He wears a half-plate that has been scoured and polished into a deep, worn pewter rather than bright steel; barnacled rivets and the faint smell of tar betray its maritime history. Pinned to the breast of that armor is a brightly colored spun-glass bird — a childish thing, yellow and impossibly fragile — that ticks faintly when he moves. The contradiction of the toy and the sword is almost jarring: a ruthless, shadow-voiced fighter who keeps a child's trinket on his chest as if it were a talisman. His movements are usually economical and quiet; when he's angry he smiles too widely and paces like a man counting knots in a line.