Nacayo has a weather-burnished face, broad through the shoulders, with skin roughened by salt spray and wind until it resembles worn sailcloth. His dark hair is cut close at the sides and tied at the nape with a strip of faded green cord. He moves with a measured, slightly rolling gait, as if the ground might shift underfoot. A tiny brass toy boat, incongruously delicate and brightly painted, is always tucked into his breast pocket. He leaves the impression of a man who has been awake too long and still noticed the one rope left unsecured.

Nacayo is exhausted but exacting, and his practical bluntness can turn unexpectedly gentle when someone is frightened or ashamed. In calm weather he jokes with workers and remembers small kindnesses; under pressure he becomes rigid, counting and recounting until he can trust the ground beneath his decisions.

Before the black tide, Nacayo kept the harbor at Duskmere Hollow, a quiet fishing village beside the Sallowmere Marsh. He counted each ship twice, once on arrival and again after its ropes were made fast, a habit that saved a crew when a fog bank hid a loose skiff from the quay. The night the black tide came and did not recede, he stayed at the harbor until the water climbed the pilings and swallowed the lower streets. He guided survivors toward the Thistlewick Road, then spent days helping them establish their refugee camp. He now keeps a careful tally of boats, carts, and people who pass through, hoping to learn whether anyone has seen Corwin Ashvale, the merchant who vanished while pursuing the drowned bell tower's new-moon ringing. Nacayo still believes his second count that night was wrong, and that someone was left behind because he trusted his own numbers.