Garruk moves with the silent assurance of a predator yet carries the casual weariness of a man burdened by hidden wars. His face is angular and weather-beaten, with deep-set eyes that flicker like embers beneath heavy brows. Rough stubble dusts his square jaw, often smudged with a faint trace of soot or grime from the city’s underground. His dark brown hair is kept short but unruly, a few rebellious strands often sticking out despite his taciturn nature. An unexpected element is the intricate silver tattoo winding up the left side of his neck—half forgotten ancient script rumored to be protective. When he stands, his broad shoulders and commanding frame make him seem larger, though he moves with the fluid grace of a dancer — a contradiction for a man who looks like a wall of stone.