Gharak moves with an odd mixture of lumbering purpose and careful, observant grace. His fur is mottled umber and moss-green where lichens cling; barklike scars cross one shoulder as if a bramble once braided into skin. He wears a hooded wool cloak patched with feather and root, and a wreath of dried horsetail grass that rattles softly when he walks. His hands are large and callused, but his fingertips are stained with plant pigments and sap; he trims his claws and drives a small carving knife with the same tenderness he uses to strip burrs from an old woman's shawl. The unexpected element: he keeps one polished human child's shoe tied to his belt, bright and absurd against his wild tones, which he polishes each dawn and murmurs to as if apologizing for something.