Korran Vane is a striking human man in his mid-fifties whose elegance seems sharpened for use as a weapon. His iron-gray hair is slicked back from a high brow, though one stubborn lock curls over his left temple whenever the air turns damp. Slate-blue eyes watch from beneath heavy lids, measuring exits, hands, and loyalties before settling on a face. His skin carries the weathered bronze of a lifelong sailor, broken by pale salt scars at the throat and knuckles. He moves with a dancer's economy across pitching decks, never bracing himself even when others stumble. His clothes smell faintly of clove oil, wet rope, and expensive smoke. The unexpected softness is in his hands, which are carefully manicured and almost delicate, except for the rigid first knuckle of his right index finger, broken and badly reset long ago.