Thalor moves like someone who has spent more nights listening to tide and wind than sleeping: lithe, deliberate steps, shoulders slightly hunched to keep rain off his throat. His clothing is damp in a way that smells of kelp and sea smoke rather than rot. He wears a battered hooded cape whose inside is patched with bright scraps of maps; the outside is a dark, iridescent blue that seems to drink light. His left forearm bears a tattoo of a crossed compass and crescent moon, its ink raised and pale from salt and sun. When he smiles his ears—just slightly pointed—tilt back, and his voice softens into almost a lullaby cadence. Contradiction: despite a weatherbeaten, furtive appearance, he meticulously keeps a small, polished silver star pinned beneath his cloak that he checks nightly.