Sir Kerrigan stands tall at nearly 6'5", his lion-like mane of thick, ash-brown hair flowing wildly beneath his helm even in stillness, like a tempest barely contained. His eyes burn with an unsettling golden hue that flickers with an almost inner fire, reflecting his manticore curse. His face, noble and broad, carries the subtle scars of countless battles, but what arrests onlookers most is the contradiction of his worn, battered Citadel armor—ornate and shining with almost holy engravings—yet marred by pulsating black veins of eldritch curse weaving visibly beneath the metal’s surface, like scars made of shadow. Kerrigan’s gait is purposeful yet surprisingly graceful for a man of his size—an unexpected feline fluidity that makes his approach simultaneously imposing and elegant. When he moves, a faint subtle scent of smoke and wild herbs trails behind him, a curious reminder of his wife’s lamia magic merging with his own fate.