Orbure moves like a man who once wore armor for long days and longer nights: economical, measured steps, a slight forward tilt as if listening for a distant command. He keeps his left sleeve cuffed short to reveal a faded white scar that arcs from wrist toward elbow — the reminder of a spear that passed too close. His face is a map of small lines and a single nicked eyebrow; his jaw is square but softened by years of good food and late-night apologies. He wears a brass fox pin at his throat, dulled by sweat and ale. Unexpectedly, his left hand is always ink-stained from ledger-keeping; the combination of soldier's calluses and smudged handwriting makes him both intimidating and domestic.