Garruk moves like someone who has learned to conserve motion in battle and in life: economical, deliberate strides, shoulders always angled to take or give a blow. His battered round shield bears a dozen gouges and a faded chalk ring — the mark of an old watch-circle he once led. His helmet is dented above the left temple and fitted with a crudely welded visor that he rarely lifts; when lowered it casts his face into shadow except for a pale vertical scar that runs from forehead to jaw, misaligned and puckered. A streak of ash and old blood has fused into the leather of his jerkin making it darker on one side, and a child's carved wooden token — a tiny horse, smoothed by years of rubbing — hangs from a cord beneath his collar. Unexpectedly, he keeps a pressed sprig of lavender wrapped in oilcloth inside his breastplate and will tuck it beneath his jaw when he thinks no one watches.