Garnuk moves like a loaded hammer—deliberate, carrying momentum even when standing still. He is broad-shouldered and squat, his beard bound into three tight plaits wrapped with battered iron rings salvaged from old tools. His skin is a map of tiny scars and pale pits from sparks and pebble-shrapnel. He wears a sleeveless coal-stained leather jerkin over a grimy linen shirt; his forearms are wrapped in soot-dark cloth. One eyebrow bears a ritual scar in the shape of a crescent. When he laughs, the laugh begins in his chest and makes his whole frame shudder; when he is quiet, his eyes — an odd, watery grey — move like someone watching for the rockslide of fate. Unexpectedly, he habitually carries a small, delicate folding brush (for cleaning dust out of stone inscriptions) tucked behind his ear, an incongruous tool of gentleness against his brutal silhouette.