Borzsák stands like a gate that has survived too many sieges, broad through the chest and slightly stooped at the neck from decades beneath armor and forge beams. His green-gray skin is mapped with pale scar tissue, including a puckered line from his left ear to the corner of his mouth that pulls his face into what looks like a permanent crooked smile. His black hair is braided into six thick cords threaded with copper rings, old cavalry buttons, and three tiny iron nails. One tusk is capped in polished blue glass, an unexpectedly delicate ornament against his brutal silhouette. He moves slowly until violence begins, then crosses space with startling economy, each step placed like a hammer strike. He smells of coal smoke, oiled leather, rosemary, and rain-wet iron.