Massive and weather-chiselled, Yorganir moves like a boulder sliding downhill — inevitability in motion. His skin is the pale, stone-like gray of goliaths, but closer inspection reveals faint parallel scars along his forearms like tidal striations. He wears his braided hair in a thick single plait threaded with a blackened metal bead shaped like an axe head (a homage, he says, but he never explains to whom). His face is broad and blunt, with a mouth that can break into an unexpected gentle grin that contradicts the hard line of his jaw. When still he looks like a statue carved to guard a harbor; when he laughs his shoulders relax into almost-boyish openness. An odd, almost theatrical element: he habitually carries a child's carved wooden axe tucked into his back sash — crude, sanded smooth, and painted with a child's attempt at lightning — a sentimental echo that sits oddly with the hunter's scars and battle hush.