Ravik moves like a man who has slept on a packed-hay deck and in silk-lined chambers. He wears his years openly: a crow-stepped scar across his left cheek, weathered creases around eyes that still flash silver when he laughs, and a few stray feathers braided into his beard — trophies from hawks and griffin alike. His gait is a long, sure stride, honed by ship decks and rocky borderland ridges; he balances with surprising lightness for a burly commander. In town he favors tailored Koribi coats embroidered with Nimmian knotwork; on campaign he dons layered leather and chain that looks like it could take both spear and sea-spray. Unexpectedly, despite the hard lines of a warrior, he keeps his nails clean and trims them with a tiny silver file set in a carved bone case — a small insistence of order that jars with his rough hands. When he enters a room, hawk-scented smoke and the faint metallic tang of salt follow him, and men in his command instinctively straighten. Yet around his children and wife he relaxes into an awkward, almost bashful warmth, fidgeting with an embroidered sleeve or reciting scraps of Koribi poetry in a thin, practiced whisper.