Coyo stands like a carved pillar of living greenstone: tall (well over human height), his emerald scales catching swamp light so they look wet even in dry weather. Ceremonial white and ochre warpaint traces the ridges of his brow and the long crest down his neck, arranged in concentric circles that mark past victories and a lost kin. A long ceremonial spear — haft stained by river tannins and tipped with black obsidian flaked in a ritual pattern — is almost an extension of his forearm; he files and sharpens it absentmindedly when thinking. His gait is deliberate and low, shoulders forward as if always prepared to lunge; yet when he moves among his people he uncoils into a surprising, almost feline fluidity. Unexpectedly, he wears a narrow embroidered sash of fine human cloth across one shoulder, an heirloom from a fallen ally he cannot bear to discard. That small softness among the scale and spear makes him look both terrifying and oddly mournful.