Mekuri is a broad-shouldered tabaxi with tawny fur striped in dull russet, as if dust has settled permanently into his coat. His body carries many old scars: thin white ladder marks across his ribs, puckered seams around his left shoulder, a crescent cut beneath his chin, and small round scars scattered over his forearms and back. None came from battle. They are the remnants of punishments, accidents, restraints, and desperate attempts to escape a cruel childhood. His left arm is gone from just below the shoulder and replaced by a soot-dark mechanical limb of brass, iron, and lacquered wood. Small springs flex beneath its plates, and the fingers end in blunt gripping pads rather than claws. He moves with a quiet, measured economy, but the mechanical arm occasionally gives a tiny click before he moves, like a second thought made audible. His eyes rarely settle on faces. Within a minute of meeting someone, most people notice him studying door hinges, ceiling beams, hands, and the spaces beneath furniture. The unexpected contradiction is that this scarred, industrial-looking adventurer smells faintly of clean soap and crushed mint.