Krushcor is a broad-shouldered troll with a dockworker's posture and a prizefighter's stillness, as if every muscle is always deciding whether to brace a boat or break a jaw. His hide is a deep tidepool green, slick-looking in the lantern light but rough as rope-burn where old scars have healed into ridges. His left forearm is wrapped in oilcloth and brass wire to keep a famous mangled hand from flexing too eagerly, while his right hand is immaculate, long-fingered, and unnervingly delicate for a creature of his size. He wears a patched storm-blue waistcoat over harbor leathers, an apron full of chalk dust and knife slivers, and a neat little brass whistle on a chain, which is absurdly proper against his brutish frame. When he moves, he does not lurch like most trolls, but rocks heel-to-toe with measured patience, like a tide coming in with a schedule. The unexpected thing is that he smells faintly of lavender soap and lemon oil, because he insists on being presentable before he throws anyone into the street.