Navir moves like smoke over water: fluid, light-footed, always half-turned as if listening for an echo. He keeps one shoulder slightly higher so his silhouette looks perpetually off-balance, a habit picked up from pushing boats through current; it makes him seem both relaxed and ready to bolt. His dark coat is always damp at the hem from river spray; his lute smells faintly of brine and oil. On his left forearm is a faded tattoo of a reed—a crude map of the river stitched into ink—while the skin behind his ear bears a thin white scar he hides with a nick of hair. The unexpected element: his smile is warm and immediate, the kind that draws crowds, but when he laughs his eyes go very cold for a heartbeat, as if something behind them has been switched to watch.