Kestir moves like a tide: a measured, creaking-sail calm that can snap into a curling wave. He wears his left sleeve cuffless and rolled to reveal a lattice of faint white scars that map the inner forearm — a stitched, old map of a ship's hull he drew into himself after a near-sinking. His right cheek is scored with a crescent-shaped burn the color of old parchment; under moonlight it seems to smolder. He favors layered garments: a weather-softened navy coat trimmed with salt-stiff silver thread, a scarf threaded with tiny glass beads that clink like gulls, and tightly tailored leather trousers. His boots are polished but singed at the toes. Unexpectedly, Kestir keeps a child's patchwork stuffed kraken (missing an eye) tucked into an inner pocket; he sometimes pats it absently when thinking, a small, incongruous tenderness in a veteran's frame.