Ghraan moves like a weighty shadow: deliberate, coiled, and precise. His skin carries the pale gray of river silt where it dries; over it run darker, almost tattoo-like scars in the pattern of a broken plough—marks from a childhood accident he paints and repaints with ash. He keeps his cropped hair in a stiff crest that bristles when alarmed; one long braided side-lock hangs past his jaw, tucked with a copper bead shaped like a tiny hammer. Oddly, his left forearm is covered in thin silvery scales (a birthmark from his human grandmother's tales of sea blood) — smooth, reflective when it catches light, and at odds with his otherwise rough skin. When he walks, the iron-on soles of his boots click in a steady count, as if keeping time for some inner metronome. His expression rests near neutrality, but his mouth tends toward a small, weary half-grin that strangers interpret as either warmth or exhaustion.