Korrig is a huge elderly man assembled from several long-dead bodies, but he does not look like a crude corpse stitched together in a cellar. His proportions are almost dignified, with broad shoulders, long arms, and a careful, slightly forward-leaning posture that makes him seem like he is always listening for distant thunder. His skin is a mosaic of cool gray, weathered brown, and pale ivory, joined by neat black sutures that resemble the seams of a master tailor. His movements are unexpectedly gentle. He lifts cups as though they contain sleeping birds, turns door handles with one finger, and lowers himself into chairs with the solemn caution of a man handling an heirloom. Within a minute of meeting him, people notice his breathing: a soft mechanical wheeze followed by a faint click beneath his ribs. When calm, it sounds almost like a bellows in a quiet forge. When angry, the rhythm becomes rapid and uneven, and tiny blue sparks crawl across his neck. His eyes rarely settle on faces. They travel instead to hands, exits, weapons, children, and anyone standing alone. The contradictory impression is immediate: he looks built to break a siege tower, yet he apologizes to furniture when he bumps into it.