Ralven moves like someone used to narrow ship timbers and crowded taverns: a low, rolling gait with a loose-shouldered ease. He wears a salt-stiffened seacoat that rustles like dried kelp, and beneath it a patched waistcoat embroidered with tiny wave motifs. His horns are short, spiraled, and wrapped in blue-tinted copper wire strung with small shells; one horn is filed flat at the tip — evidence of a bar fight now commemorated as 'the night the sea laughed.' His left forearm bears an inky network of purple lines that shimmer faintly when he speaks of the deep. Unexpectedly, he keeps a neat little stack of paper cranes folded from old ship ledgers tucked inside his coat pocket, and he smooths them during tense conversations as if folding them would fold fate itself.