Garok is a massive half orc with skin the color of a storm cloud. He stands a full head taller than most men, with a chest like a beer barrel and arms thick with corded muscle. His left eye is gone, replaced by a jagged scar that runs from his temple to his jaw, a reminder of a spear tip that nearly ended him. He keeps his coarse black hair braided tight against his scalp and wears a necklace of animal teeth alongside his old military dog tags.

Garok is a man of few words, preferring to let his presence and his axe do the talking. He has a dry, dark sense of humor often born from the grim reality of the battlefield. He is slow to anger but even slower to forgive. While he appears intimidating, he has a soft spot for those who suffer under the boot of tyrants, having seen too many villages burned for causes he no longer believes in.

Garok was raised in the Border Legions, a rough collection of mercenaries and outcasts tasked with holding the line against marauding giants. For a decade, his world was nothing but mud, blood, and the rhythm of the march. He rose through the ranks due to his resilience, but he grew weary of the endless cycles of violence that achieved nothing but full graveyards. The lords he served cared little for the lives of the soldiers who bled for them. After a disastrous siege where his entire company was used as bait, Garok threw his insignia in the dirt and walked away. He now travels as a sellsword, though he is more selective about whose coin he accepts. He carries his old greataxe not out of a love for war, but because it is the only thing that has never betrayed him. He wanders the frontier looking for a reason to fight that isn't dictated by a crown or a banner.