Garruk moves like someone who has spent equal parts of his life on parade ground and in narrow city alleys: deliberate, efficient, always aware of lines—his and everyone else's. He keeps his plate polished until it catches the light like a mirror; the metal is scored across the breast with hairline marks from years of combat, each a neat gash rather than an ugly dent. His cloak is the deep blue of the city watch with a thin vertical stripe of silver thread—an old campaign medal braided into the hem, frayed but carefully stitched back. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's wooden bracelet under his gauntlet: rough, dark wood carved with a simple sea motif, the only thing that ever looks worn and soft on him. When he walks he tends to perch his weight slightly to his left hip, as if remembering a limp that no longer exists. Up close, his left cheek bears a pale crescent scar that hooks toward his ear, the result of a knife at close quarters years ago.