Harrim moves like someone who learned to measure risk on a battlefield and comfort in a marketplace. He favors practical posture—shoulders squared but relaxed—and walks with a slight curl of the left hand, as if always checking for an invisible hilt. His skin bears a faint web of old scars along the forearms and one pale crescent across his throat that disappears beneath his collar. His left ear has a small notch where an earring once hung; his right hand is callused, the knuckles brightened by work with rope and leather. He keeps a perpetually faint dusting of talc on his palm to keep coin from slipping. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's bright-yellow ribbon tied inside his jacket pocket—worn and frayed, incongruous beside his martial gear and tidy ledger.