Mikkel Vargason is a broad-shouldered human man with the compact, weather-hardened frame of someone who has spent decades hauling wet rope and bracing against rolling decks. His skin is brown-gold and roughened at the hands, forearms, and back of the neck by salt, wind, and tar. His dark auburn hair is worn in a long braid threaded with three tiny brass rings, while the rest is clipped close enough that rain runs cleanly off his scalp. He walks with a rolling sailor's gait even on dry stone, favoring his left side when turning, yet when angered he becomes unnervingly still, as if waiting for the sea to reveal its next current. His most memorable feature is the immaculate pale blue scarf he wears beneath his work coat, absurdly delicate against his tar-stained clothing. He smells faintly of cedar oil, brine, and burnt sugar.