Thane moves like a man used to narrow decks and cramped workshops: deliberate, with both hands always ready to steady something. He wears a soot-streaked leather apron over layered wool and oilskin; his fingers are callused and stained with soot, verdigris, and something like moon-salt. A braided silver circlet sits low on his brow—more tradition than metalwork—its knot-work mirroring the rope patterns of his hometown. His laugh is quick; his smile pulls one corner of a mouth higher, as if he weighs every joy against some unspoken expense. Unexpectedly, a neat row of tiny glass beads is threaded into the cuff of his left sleeve; up close they seem to hold miniature, motionless glows that dim when you bring your hands near.