A scarred tiefling in oil-darkened work clothes. His skin is deep ember-red with faint ash-gray veins that pulse when he exhales heavily. His horns curl back low above his temples, chipped near the tips from long-ago crate handling. A ragged leather apron stained with salt and fish oil hangs over a linen shirt frayed at the cuffs. One forearm is wrapped in lengthwise tatters of sailcloth and wire, and the other bears a network of raised pale scars like map routes. His gait is a steady, rolling lurch that speaks of a lifetime on shifting planks; he moves with the economy of someone who knows exactly where his weight must fall. Unexpectedly, his left hand is almost immaculate, nails carefully trimmed and pale, as if he spends secret minutes tending it when no one watches.