Kragun stands with the compact, coiled posture of someone used to pulling weight and closing distance. His green-gray skin is patterned with thin, pale scars like the rings of a tree; each scar is faintly glossy where oil is rubbed into it nightly. He keeps his tusks filed into points instead of the sweeping crescents favored by warbrutes — a deliberate, domestic choice that makes his face seem less aggressive. He wears a battered iron gorget over a patched leather jerkin; the gorget is hammered thin and engraved with a small merchant house sigil — a cinnamon-brown walnut tree — that he refuses to remove. His left forearm bears a woven bracer of red-dyed cords covered in small metal charms: a horseshoe, a tiny anvil, a coin stamped with a foreign king's mark. When he walks he sways slightly, like someone still balancing a heavy load; when he runs his movements are straightforward and efficient rather than graceful. Unexpectedly, Kragun keeps one hand perpetually sticky with soot and hone oil — even when greeting guests, he will unconsciously rub his fingertips together as if checking the edge of an unseen blade.