Master Marwan ibn-Kahn is a frail, venerable figure of chalk-gray stone, his skin deeply weathered into fine branching cracks that collect pale salt dust. His amber eyes remain startlingly sharp behind thick quartz magnifying lenses, and his long white beard hangs in layered ropes, each strand glittering as if frosted. He moves with a soft, deliberate shuffle that suggests exhaustion until someone mishandles a tablet, at which point he crosses the room with unnerving speed. His hands are thin and jointed like carved roots, but they never tremble while touching fragile artifacts. He leaves behind the scent of dry stone, lamp oil, and seawater. The unexpected contradiction is that his ancient face and skeletal frame conceal a remarkably powerful grip, capable of snapping a wax seal or pinning a much younger radical's wrist to a desk.