Thalrun moves like a ship cutting a tight harbor: sure-footed, a little rolling at his hips, with a dancer's balance and a smuggler's casual readiness. He favors one hip cocked forward as if bracing against wind. His clothes look patched where danger has touched them — a bright-blue sash faded at the edges, cuffs replaced with mismatched fabrics, and a finely embroidered collar hinting at a once-wealthy patron. When still, he studies the room like a captain reading tides: fingers tapping an invisible map across his palm. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's carved wooden turtle tied to his belt, varnished and worn smooth, an incongruous relic against his otherwise weather-worn, practical gear.