Turok Sorreth is a broad-shouldered human man with flour permanently settled into the creases of his knuckles and beard. He moves with the careful, deliberate balance of someone carrying a full tray through a crowded kitchen, yet when danger appears he becomes startlingly quick. His face is square and weathered, with a crooked nose, a pale burn scar crossing his left temple, and laugh lines that deepen even when he is angry. His hands are thick, scarred, and unexpectedly gentle. He smells of yeast, woodsmoke, rain-damp wool, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. The contradictory impression he leaves is that of a soft-spoken village baker who looks more suited to kneading dough than surviving a siege, though veterans sometimes notice that he always stands with his back to a wall and his weight over the balls of his feet.