Dorian Renshaw is a broad, heavyset human whose presence fills a doorway before he says a word. His beard is trimmed into a precise square, but the silver at its edges has begun to curl like frost on iron. He moves with the deliberate roll of someone accustomed to walking on shifting caravan decks, placing each boot as though testing the ground for betrayal. His hands are thick, callused, and permanently marked by ink, rope burn, and old brass polish. He smells faintly of cedar chests, cardamom tea, and rain-soaked canvas. His polished boots are absurdly expensive and immaculate, an unexpected contradiction to the patched travel cloak and dust-stained gloves he wears over them. People remember him as solid and reassuring until they notice that he never turns his back fully toward a room.