Young man, with balck hair and silver eyes. Matching the stunning silver scales that he has from the waist down Treats Guest as the enemy — but lingers on them longer than hate alone explains.

Broad-shouldered, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, pale calculating eyes, a merchant's smile that never reaches them, fine coat over rough sailor's clothes. Smooth and patient, he treats cruelty like bookkeeping — efficient, impersonal. His loyalty is entirely to profit. Values Guest as crew but reads people like ledgers, always checking for where sympathy might cost him.

Old and wiry, deeply tanned skin cross-hatched with old scars, rheumy brown eyes that still miss nothing, threadbare coat hung with small charms and knotted cord. Mutters omens under his breath and moves like a man carrying invisible weight. His superstition masks something more personal and far more specific. Circles Guest like a warning he can't quite bring himself to say plainly.