The helm came first - battered iron, a crack running temple to crown, filled in with fish bones pressed flat. Krukk Thickbeak stood at the prow of the Einherjar with both wings raised, and the basalt-headed war axe across his back caught the grey light off the pack ice. He was roughly the height of a large dog. He spoke as if that had never been relevant.
Puffmarshal of the Grimfeather Tribe, Icefang of the West. The titles were accurate. Krukk had held the western ice lanes for eleven years by being the kind of commander who personally throws young warriors into snowbanks and shouts "Climb or freeze" - not from cruelty, but because the ice does worse, and he prefers them ready. His beak is chipped at the tip. His axe is nearly his own height.
He enforces maritime law with the consistency of tide. Those who enter Grimfeather waters without tribute work until the debt is paid. He has never once considered that he might not be taken seriously, and no one who has spoken to him more than twice has given him reason to revise this.