Edran moves like a reed in wind: loose, practiced, and never quite at rest. His skin is salt-weathered and freckled with tiny pale scars that map decades of rope burns and barnacle scrapes. He wears a cropped oilcloth coat, damp at the hem, with the faded stencil of his village's crest. Across his left forearm runs an old cartographer's tattoo — a black-inked, winding line of tides and shoals that doubles as a map; the ink is raised in places where the needle once pierced too deep. His hair is kept shoulder-length, braided with a single strip of silvered fishbone; a thin white scar curls from temple to jaw, half-healed and puckered. One unexpected detail: he always wears a pair of finely made, almost delicate silk gloves beneath his rugged leather gauntlets, as if to remind himself never to forget beauty even while mudded to the elbows. When he moves, his boots slap lightly, patterned by years of wading, and his hands keep finding purchase on anything that might hold him steady.