Kess stands imposing with a towering 6'5" frame, his scarred half-orc face marked by a deep jagged line running from temple to jawline. His once-dark skin is mottled with faint burn marks and a subtle sheen of grease, testimony to years spent handling smuggled contraband in dark docks. His left hand is missing the index and ring fingers, replaced by tightly wrapped leather bindings hiding crude bone replacements he fashioned under duress—a secret labor of patience and pain. His movements are deliberate but surprisingly nimble for a brute, his gait dogged yet fluid, betraying a background of street brawls and tactical retreats. He wears battered leather armor patched with iron plates and scraps of canvas, stained from saltwater and rust, and a heavy wide leather belt equipped with pouches holding vials of strange powders and lockpicks. Curiously, hung around his neck is a delicate silver chain with an intricate origami crane pendant that jangles faintly when he moves — a delicate, almost laughable contrast to his gruff exterior.