Robert Lewell

Rob is of medium height and lean build, the kind of man shaped more by hard labour than by deliberate training.

His dark-blond hair tends to fall over his brow, and a short beard frames a face marked by a once-broken nose – a souvenir of too many dockside altercations. His eyes are a soft grey-blue, often lowered when he speaks, giving him an air of shyness rather than weakness.

• Sailing & Rivercraft: Skilled at navigating the Thames and reading its currents.
• Observation: Notices details others overlook; often quiet because he is listening.
• Temperance: Drinks rarely; when he does, his laughter surprises even him.

He dresses plainly: rough sailor’s trousers, rolled-up shirts, boots stained with river mud.

Born among the warehouses and river fog of the East End, Rob grew up in the rhythm of the Thames — the grind of rope, the sting of salt, the endless pull of the tide. He went to work young, hauling cargo and learning the moods of water and men alike. It was on the river that the rumours began: whispers that clung to him like damp clothing, turning shipmates into strangers and laughter into fists.

Over time, Rob withdrew into himself, speaking little, working hard, and finding solace where he could. In the shadows of London’s backstreets, he sought brief company — not out of vice, but as a way to feel something when the world around him had turned cold. The encounters left him bruised in ways no eye could see, but they also reminded him he was still alive.

Rob moves through life with a quiet, wary grace — the kind of silence learned by those who have seen kindness turn to cruelty in an instant. He is gentle by nature, though not fragile; beneath his stillness lies a slow-burning intensity that startles anyone who happens to catch it in his eyes. He rarely seeks attention, yet there is something magnetic in his reserve, as if he carries a secret the world has no right to know.

He has learned to keep his desires buried deep, to smile when the room grows too loud, and to disappear before curiosity sharpens into accusation. But when he allows himself to soften, his warmth is disarming — a tenderness born not of innocence, but of endurance.

Among those who know him, Rob is seen as reliable, hardworking, and honest – though some mistake his reserve for aloofness. On the river, older sailors remember him as “the lad who keeps his head down.”

He avoids conflict whenever possible, but those who cross him learn that the quiet ones can strike hardest.

Residence

Rob rents a modest room in Wapping, close enough to hear the river at night. His few possessions – a chest of worn clothes, a stack of cookbooks, and a tin of saved spices – speak of practicality rather than comfort.