Garran moves like a man who has spent equal parts time under sun and in the cramped dark of merchant ships. His armor is well cared for but dented about the edges, each nick telling a different story. He keeps a folded map stuffed into the inside of his breastplate and a scrap of faded blue cloth tied around the pommel of his sword the size of a coin - a symbol from home. His left forearm bears a tattoo of a stylized wave and gear interlocked. Unexpected element: he smells faintly of lemon and coal at the same time.