Pavo is a broad, weathered man whose presence makes a room feel measured. He stands with his weight slightly forward, as if every floorboard has already been tested for failure, and walks with a quiet, deliberate limp that becomes almost graceful when he is angry. His hands are the most arresting part of him: square-palmed, heavily callused, and permanently darkened around the nails by iron dust and gate grease. He counts under his breath whenever someone enters a room, touching each finger to his thumb in sequence. His face is clean-shaven except for a narrow gray chin tuft, and his iron-colored hair is clipped close enough to reveal the pale scalp beneath. He smells faintly of lamp oil, rain, and old leather. The contradiction is that his intimidating bulk is accompanied by astonishingly gentle movements around fragile objects, especially cups, keys, and sleeping children.