Garruk moves like a man who has lived uphill and downwind: deliberate, with a slight lean as if bracing against a constant gust. He wears a battered leather apron splattered with arcane pigments and brine-stiff drips; his forearms are tattooed with faded culinary sigils and a rope-knot pattern taken from a lost lover's braid. Scar tissue puckers around his left jaw where a skillet once caught a falling blade. He carries a heavy iron ladle at his belt and a curved butcher's cleaver in a sheath fashioned from sailcloth. When he laughs, his whole chest bobs and the apron flaps like a gull's wing; when he is angry, he hums low and rhythmic as if stirring a pot.