A compact Togruta man with russet-red skin stands in disciplined three-quarter balance, his square shoulders held still while his narrow waist and lifted rear ankle reveal constant calculation beneath the dignity. His swept-back montrals are dark russet with pale geometric bands, and three head-tails fall behind him like heavy braided ropes, their tips brushing the bronze harness when he turns. His amber eyes have narrow pupils and an unwavering guarded focus. A faded ownership brand marks his left shoulder, partly hidden beneath the collar. His hands are the first thing most people notice: broad-palmed, dry, and polished smooth at the fingertips from years of carrying silver, scrubbing stone, and handling hot metal, but with unusually strong wrists. He moves with the noiseless precision of someone trained to cross a sleeping palace. The contradiction is striking: his posture is ceremonially graceful, yet his bare feet are dusty, his chain drags, and his expression suggests he is always one breath from running. When calm, he breathes through his nose in a slow four-count. When rattled, that rhythm stops completely, leaving a frightening silence before he speaks.