Tazgar stands a hair under seven feet, all long angles and coiled strength. His head is clean-shaven to the scalp so the black tribal tattoos — thick, looping bands and jagged talon marks — read like storm-lines across a map of his skull and down his throat. He wears a patchwork of chainmail scraps and dark furs arranged more for show and menace than for protection; the metal plates clang with a practiced rattle when he moves, but gaps reveal cord-wrapped ribs and an old, faded leather jerkin beneath. Unexpectedly, tucked among his belt pouches are three tiny, brightly painted wooden birds whose chipped paint and squeaky bell are at odds with his scowling face. He moves with the loose, coiled gait of someone used to long miles: feet barely whispering on brush, hips always ready to turn, shoulders drifting as if listening to the wind. Up close his scowl is texture-rich — a face creased like old leather, small laugh-lines at the eyes and a healed split along his lower lip that gives him a permanent sardonic smile when he lets it. The overall impression: terrifying silhouette, but when he laughs the whole shape seems to come alive in an embarrassingly warm way.