Gatvyr Korsk is a broad-shouldered human with the compact, weathered strength of someone who has carried barrels, dragged deer, and slept beneath hedges in bad weather. He moves with a deliberate forward lean, as though walking into wind even indoors, and favors his left foot when turning. His hands are permanently roughened by lye, rope, and old bowstring, while his neatly trimmed beard is threaded with pale copper that catches firelight. He occupies more space than he seems aware of, often standing in doorways with his elbows braced against both jambs. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate, delicate handwriting, used for inventories, private letters, and tiny pressed-flower labels in the tavern pantry. Guests remember the impression of a man built like a gate who handles paper like a priest handling sacred relics.