Gerrik moves like a man too used to carrying weight: every step is measured, knees slightly bent, shoulders set as if holding a shield even when he carries none. His face is a map of weather and worry — a diagonal scar runs from just under his left eye down across a hollowed cheek to the jaw, stopping short of a thinner, puckered line that cuts through his lower lip. He wears a cropped, hard-pressed beard threaded with premature gray only at the chin; his hair is shaved close at the sides and left longer on top, often tied back with a scrap of faded blue. His armor is practical and worn to a dull shine; over it he sometimes drapes a civilian coat with the hem singed and patched in odd places, an unexpected softness against chain and steel. When he laughs — which is rarer than his teasing — his fists soften and he looks younger for a heartbeat.