Garrukta moves like a gate closing: deliberate, unhurried, and final. She wears a battered mithral gorget under a sleeveless leather jack, the metal peeking like a pale smile above a throat scar. Her skin is the olive-gray of river-stone warmed by dawn; faint white scars map her forearms like constellations. Her left hand is encased in a custom iron bracer studded with tiny polished river-glass—both trophy and tool. She favors short, practical hair that is coarsely braided on one side and shorn close on the other, leaving a surprising cascade of silver strands at the nape that she rarely ties up. When she walks, her shoulders keep an almost protective arc, as if a small invisible circle follows her steps. Contradictorily, despite the hard planes of her face and the permanent readiness in her stance, her laugh is soft and quick, and she has an almost childlike habit of humming lullabies under her breath when she thinks no one is listening.