Korvun moves like someone who has learned to make every inch of his large body useful. He stands with one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if perpetually bracing for an unseen blow. His skin is the weathered dusk of harbor clay, streaked with salt-scars and a faded tattoo of a broken trident along his right clavicle. His horns curve back and then flare into chipped, hornlike blades—one horn bears a deep gouge and a silver wire bound through it like a crude repair. He favors half-smiles that reveal a chipped canine and an old dockside habit: a braid of red thread tied around the little finger of his left hand. Contradictorily, he keeps one boot meticulously shined while the other is perpetually muddied, as if he expects to be both meeting and fighting at any moment.