Loric Morrin Vale moves with the steady economy of someone who has hefted planks and negotiated storms. He keeps his hair cropped close at the nape but lets a longer, iron-grey forelock fall across his forehead. His skin is weathered like well-oiled oak, and his hands are callused at the joints with faint white scars in patterns like rope burns. He favors practical posture: shoulders squared, chin tucked so he appears ready to listen. Unexpectedly, he wears a tiny, polished silver compass pinned beneath his lapel that always points not to north but toward the Guildhouse when he speaks the Guild's traditional phrase. When he laughs, which is rare, it is quick and almost musical, as if an old sea shanty has slipped out of him.