Jorren moves like tide and rope: quick, coiled, and endlessly balanced. He favors a long dark coat scoured with salt and oil, sleeves pushed to reveal a bracer of braided whale-bone on his left forearm. His face carries a sun-creased tan with a crescent scar that slices the left cheek from jawline to lip — a memento of a boarding that went wrong. A narrow silver stud with a tiny aquamarine sits in his right ear, and a thin green tattoo of a compass rose winds from the base of his neck to his collarbone. When he walks he shifts his weight as if anticipating the roll of a ship; when on firm ground he keeps one hand loosely on his hip, fingers always near blade or gun. Unexpectedly, he keeps his right sleeve buttoned fast and neat while his left sleeve is ragged and cuffed with knots and bits of sailcloth, a contradiction that makes him feel both competent and clinging to its past.