Gharun moves with a soldier's economy: deliberate steps, shoulders square, always angled to block a second attack. He wears a dented half-helm that leaves his lower tusks exposed and a cusped scar running from temple to jaw like a lightning strike. His armor is a mismatched patchwork of noble plate fragments and scavenged mail: polished where ceremonial eyes will see it, rough and pitted where battle scars hide. When he walks the market or the gatehouse he tucks his greatsword at a visible angle, an open insult to anyone who would test him. Unexpectedly, he carries a child's ribbon tied to the pommel of his sword—faded violet, frayed at the edges—a private softness against the severity of his uniform.