A broad, gray-skinned orc standing just over six feet tall, with sharply pointed ears, prominent lower tusks, and a heavy brow. His black hair is kept in a short, uneven braid tied with faded red thread. He wears battered chain mail beneath a coat that is slightly too small across the shoulders, its sleeves repeatedly patched with mismatched cloth. The coat's brass buttons have been polished obsessively, while everything else is dusty and practical. He smells faintly of lamp oil, iron, and the bitter mint salve he rubs into his hands after marching. His most noticeable feature is not a wound but his careful maintenance of one old red scarf, folded precisely inside his belt whenever he is not wearing it.

Mokéz is disciplined, watchful, and unpleasantly practical. He rarely raises his voice because he expects people to obey him the first time. He respects competence more than virtue, pays close attention to logistics, and becomes almost cordial when discussing weapons, fortifications, or the terms of a contract. He is not needlessly cruel, but he has no instinctive sympathy for the weak unless their survival can be made useful.

Mokéz Dará was raised among an orc war-band that sold its strength to whoever could pay in food, iron, and territory. He learned the soldier's exercises before he learned to read, and he learned quickly that orders mattered less than knowing who would be rewarded when the blood dried. During a border campaign, his unit was abandoned by its employer and left without supplies. Mokéz survived by taking command of the retreat, then returned weeks later to collect the unpaid wages from the officer who had betrayed them. He did not kill the officer. He made the man sign over his estate first. Since then, Mokéz has served as a caravan guard, siege-hand, and hired enforcer. He carries the habits of the barracks everywhere: counting exits, checking straps, and measuring strangers by how they react to a firm command. He adventures now because battlefields are too small for his ambitions and because a company of capable companions can become something more useful than a squad. He has no interest in honor as an abstract virtue. He wants leverage, dependable allies, and enough wealth to ensure that no one can ever abandon him without paying dearly.