Varren moves like a man who has mapped every beam, rope and crate of a harbor in his bones. He wears a salt-dark leather coat that smells faintly of kelp and ink; the coat's cuffs are patched with sailcloth of differing colors, a visible chronicle of seasons and favors. His left forearm is crisscrossed with faded rope-burn scars and a tidy tattoo of a compass rose. He keeps a small battered ledger tucked against his hip beneath the coat and a battered brass spyglass hangs from a chain at his belt. On one sunny cheek is a crescented scar that puckers his smile; on the other cheek a child's handprint, inked when he signed a child's name into the ledger years ago and never quite washed away. He often stands with one boot on a coil of rope, toes splayed, as if testing the world's balance. Unexpectedly, when he doesn't think anyone's watching, he hums lullabies in the old harbor tongue—a soft, almost theatrical habit out of step with his sharp, businesslike façade.