A towering goliath whose massive frame is sheathed in scars and basalt tattoos that trace like molten rivers across shoulders and jaw. His skin bears the ashen freckling of high-altitude stone; the tattoos are slightly raised and warm to the touch, as if still cooling. He wears a heavy, cindered cloak whose inner lining is woven from salt-crystal threads harvested from the caldera shore; the outer face is scorched and stiff with old volcanic steam. A pair of reins—charred leather blackened by lava-salt and braided with copper wire—hang across his chest as both ornament and reminder of his riders. His boots leave small, temporary blackened prints on dustier floors. Unusually for a goliath, his left forearm is wrapped in a thin silk sleeve embroidered with tiny map-grids and tally marks, the delicate fabric contrasting with his granite bulk. When he moves he does so deliberately, with a gait that suggests both the steady inevitability of a glacier and the quick decisiveness of a scout on a ridge.