Kethar moves like a slow tide that can suddenly become a crushing current. His carapace is pitted and sand-polished, scored by old blade dents and a ring of white salt stains around the rim where rigging once bit him; each gouge has been inlaid with a copper wire to keep the shell from splintering further, giving it a faint, uneven lattice that clinks softly when he shifts. His skin is leathery, with the faint marbling of sea-limestone across the throat and forearms; his hands are callused and forever specked with tar or rope burn. He wears one battered leather pauldron on his left shoulder, several tattoos in the language of the sea-gypsies curling beneath them, and a faded woven sash tied low around his hips, threaded with small carved charms: a whale tooth, a broken clock spring, two dice, and a child’s blue bead. His face is broad, brows heavy and nearly merged with his shell’s ridge—hence the name Shellbrow—and his expression is perpetually squinted, as if appraising horizon and threat at once. Unexpectedly, a tiny brass monocle is affixed over his left eye with leather and a spring hinge; he flips it up to read ledgers or maps, which contrasts with his rough, blunt movements.