A towering presence even seated: Khal-Ur moves with a long, economical gait that seems designed to conserve energy over miles. His skin is a weathered granite, matrixed with pale route-runes—tattoos carved in a tradition of thawed-iron ink that map the great paths his caravans travel. He wears a mosaic of sun-bleached pelts and faded trade-banners layered like armor, each stitch and tear marked by ownership and bargain. The left side of his face bears a crescent scar that curls into the upper rune above his brow; that scar is deliberately decorated with a single strip of bright cobalt thread. His hands are broad and callused, fingers tattooed with tiny tally-dots for every caravan loss he has counted. Unexpectedly, Khal-Ur favors a pair of delicate copper goggles with ground lenses used for reading merchant ledgers—an incongruous scholarly touch on a mountain of a man. He often carries a long-reach spear lashed to a staff carved with miniature caravan figures, and small bells dangle from his sun-bleached sash, not to announce his approach but to mark the wind and direction during storms.