Vehruk moves like someone who has spent decades reading the small motions of people and animals: quiet, precise, and economical. He wears his duties in his posture — shoulders squared, hands kept at waist height as if always ready to tidy or inspect. His face is a map of careful control: a prominent nasal ridge, thin lips perpetually pressed together, and a triangular scar along the left jaw he acquired subduing an escaped tenant years ago. His skin shows the Koribi pallor streaked with the dull sunburn of outdoor labor. He keeps one surprising adornment — a polished brass ring on his right forefinger engraved with the White Horse emblem; he touches it when thinking. Contradiction: his hands are callused and stained from toil, but his nails are always clean and neatly trimmed, like a man who insists on order even in grime.