Garric stands imposing at just over 6'3", his broad shoulders and powerful frame moving with a surprising grace for a man of his size. His weathered half-plate bears dents and scratches, each telling tales of countless skirmishes. Over it, his tabard shows the worn crest of the town of Brackendale—a silver falcon clutching a crimson rose. His dark brown hair is streaked prematurely with steel gray, tightly cropped except for a stubborn, untamed patch above his right temple. His deep-set hazel eyes flicker with sharp intelligence, yet soften unexpectedly when he thinks no one watches. His left forearm bears a faded tattoo of interlocking rings, a remnant from his forgotten youth. Contradicting his hardened exterior, Garric often hums old lullabies under his breath, a secret softness that catches those rare few off guard. His gait is deliberate but calm, a predator who assesses every step and breath around him.