A broad, slab-shouldered human with the look of a man hewn from driftwood and bad decisions. His skin is weathered gray-tan from years of salt wind and sawdust, his face pitted and misshapen from an old childhood fever, and his jaw sits crooked beneath a mouth that never seems fully closed. His forearms are rope-thick and scarred, with pale burn marks from pitch and resin, while his hands are enormous, split, and permanently nicked by blade work. He moves with a slow, heavy confidence, each step making him seem more like a loaded workbench than a man. The contradiction that makes people remember him is his immaculate nails, carefully trimmed and polished with bee oil, as if even this ugly brute insists on a craftsman's vanity.