Sahrin moves like a man who has learned to balance on narrow ledges and rolling decks: fluid, always a hair's breadth from falling into a graceful pose. His left forearm is banded in pale, raised sigils that glow faintly when he speaks of the sea; the markings crawl like ink when he is angry. He keeps one boot scuffed and salt-stiff while the other is almost pristine, as if he steps between two worlds. He favors half-open collars and a sash with knots tied in a child's sequence — knots his late sister taught him. Up close, his smile is warm but doesn't reach a thin, old scar that splits his right eyebrow. Unexpectedly, he carries a battered porcelain teacup in a pouch at his belt, wrapped in oilskin, and pauses to drink from it when thinking.