Rook is a mountain of a man with skin the color of wet slate and the texture of weathered granite. His eyes are solid chips of polished citrine that glow faintly when he is determined. Instead of hair, a ridge of small, jagged quartz crystals runs from his forehead down to his nape. His left forearm is noticeably thicker than his right, encased in a dormant layer of tectonic sediment that looks like an organic gauntlet. He moves with a slow, deliberate heaviness that makes the floorboards groan, yet there is a surprising grace to how he centers his weight. Paradoxically, despite his rugged, stony exterior, his hands are immaculately clean and he smells pleasantly of petrichor and fresh mountain air.