Corin carries the restless poise of someone used to moving between places that don't want him. He favors narrow, quick steps and an almost sideways tilt of his shoulders when passing through crowded streets, as if always sliding out of someone's reach. His face is long and finely boned with a half-elf slant to the cheekbones; a thin white scar forks through his left eyebrow and down into a knot of tiny puckered marks at his temple—remnants of a river-rafting accident. He keeps one sleeve permanently cuffed up to reveal a tattooed map of impossible waterways that glows faintly in damp weather. Unexpectedly, his left hand is always stained with ash from his pastime carving tiny wooden birds, a messy but oddly affectionate hobby for a man whose movements are otherwise precise.