Damas is a broad, weathered human man with the compact strength of someone who has spent half his life hauling gates, dragging unconscious fighters, and bracing against charging beasts. He moves with an economical sideways shuffle, always keeping one shoulder angled toward the nearest exit. His hands are permanently roughened by rope, sand, and bronze dust, but his fingernails are carefully cleaned every morning. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice his teeth: small, square, and unnaturally even, with one bright gold molar that flashes whenever he laughs. He pauses before speaking, draws a quiet breath through his nose, and taps his tongue once against that gold tooth as if checking that it is still there. His most contradictory feature is his immaculate, almost delicate handwriting, which he uses to record bets, injuries, bribes, and funeral expenses in tiny columns.