Ares is a mountain of controlled motion: broad shoulders set on a narrow waist, his stance a ledger of discipline. His ceremonial plate fits like a second skin — not flamboyant but immaculate, every joint burnished and every edge engraved with thin bands of Old Imperial script bearing oaths and dates. His greatsword, Balance Rendered, hangs from a scabbard that shows more repair than shine: leather straps replaced, a loop where a medal once was. When he walks, the soft clink of plate and the metal-scented breeze precede him; when he stands, crowds unconsciously step back as if the air itself respects his radius. Unexpectedly, his left forearm is scarred in a woven lattice that shimmers faintly in moonlight — an ancestral tattoo of his orcish line that glows like hot iron only when he is near death or has sworn a dark oath.