Thorek is broad and granite-shouldered, moving with the slow inevitability of a mountain boulder until anger sharpens them to a coiled spring. Their skin is flecked with pale, lichen-like scars from years exposed to wind and rock. Thorek's left forearm bears an elaborate stitchwork of antler and sinew — a cuff they crafted after their first winter below the treeline — that chafes faintly against weathered skin. Their eyes are keen and a little too quick, always scanning. Unexpectedly, they favor a pair of bright, human-made lenses perched on the bridge of their nose when reading maps or letters; the lenses sit oddly against a face used to bare sky and make Thorek look both reverent and ridiculous. When relaxed, they hum low mountain tunes under their breath; when agitated, they punctuate sentences by rapping knuckles against their greataxe haft.