Barnaby is a mountain of a man with a chest as broad as a beer cask and arms like dockside pillars. He moves with a rhythmic, heavy grace that suggests a lifetime spent on swaying decks. His skin is leathered by salt air and map-veined with the permanent flush of a man who enjoys his own product. His most striking feature is his left hand, a masterwork prosthetic of solid, hallmarked silver that catches the candlelight of his tavern. Despite his rugged frame, he possesses startlingly long, delicate eyelashes that give him a soulful, almost feminine softness when he is listening intently, a sharp contrast to his booming presence.