Towering and stocky for a Tabaxi, Per Bletcher’s coal-black fur is slicked back and bristled with tiny scars from old fights, giving him a perpetually ragged, rugged look. His deep-set amber eyes gleam with a calculating fire behind bushy, jagged eyebrows. Per’s peg-leg, crudely carved from driftwood and stained dark with years of river grime, clicks against the deck with each step. He moves with a surprising forcefulness; each stride deliberate and weighty, yet strangely graceful for someone missing a limb. The thick cigar smoke that curls around him always trails a faint hint of brimstone — an odd contrast to his surprisingly courteous demeanor with customers, making him an unforgettable figure steaming through mist along the river. A faded tattoo of a skull wrapped in river reeds peeks out from beneath his weather-beaten captain’s coat, a remnant from his pirating days.