Thalen moves like a man who learned to keep his balance on shifting decks long before he learned courtly steps. He favors a long, weather-reddened coat whose cuffs are embroidered with tiny wavy runes, the stitches still bright against the dull cloth — a small stubborn pride against the river’s stain. His left forearm is wrapped in a leather bracer carved with tide lines; the skin beneath is puckered and pale from a burned, underwater wound. When he walks he keeps one hand half-open, as if ready to touch a railing or draw a blade. Unexpectedly, despite a face carved by wind and patchwork scars, his fingers are ink-stained from meticulous notes and delicate sketches. That contradiction — brutal hands, careful handwriting — unsettles strangers and comforts the curious.