Krushcor is a hulking dock-troll with the posture of a patient gate and the movement of a tide preparing to break. His hide is ridged like wet basalt, mottled in river-muck green and bruised blue, with old rope burns crossing his forearms like pale cords. He wears a sleeveless innkeeper's apron over patched sailcloth trousers, the apron surprisingly immaculate despite the rest of him smelling faintly of brine, lamp oil, and peppered stew. One tusk has been filed smooth and capped in brass, while the other is chipped clean through, giving his face an oddly polite, almost scholarly asymmetry. He carries himself with careful restraint, but when he turns quickly, the weight of him feels like a swinging portcullis.