Broad-shouldered and stocky in a manner that suggests strength rather than height. Morga's shoulders are ringed with the faint ridges and old abrasions of a lifetime carrying heavy chains. His skin is pocked with tiny pale scars where shackles once rubbed him raw. He moves with a careful economy, each step measured as if conserving momentum for hauling or restraining. He often stands with one hand hooked through a length of chain looped over his shoulder; the chain clinks with a rhythm like a metronome when he speaks. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single well-polished porcelain doll cradled under his coat when he thinks no one is watching, an odd delicate contrast to the coarse metal he favors.