Ishar moves like someone who has spent equal parts of his life on a rolling deck and in a ballroom. He carries himself with a dancer's poise — quick, economical steps and a constant slight tilt forward as if listening for the next note — but his movements are punctuated by a barely perceptible hitch in his left hip from an old boarding wound. He favors dark, close-cut clothing that gleams where sea-salt has been rubbed into leather; his coat is a deep green felt, the collar embroidered with the tiny crest of a long-sunken merchant guild. On his left hand he wears a curious, hand-stitched wool mitten lined with coin-pouches; it seems absurdly domestic against his otherwise elegant attire. When he smiles it's all charm and knife-edge calculation, and he has an odd habit of letting his eyes linger on a person's hands more than their face.