Ormand is a man of heavy, rhythmic movements who smells faintly of cheap jasmine perfume and stale ale. He has a thick, square jaw and skin like weathered parchment. His most striking feature is a prosthetic left hand made of cold-wrought iron that never fully closes. He wears a masterwork breastplate that has been intentionally scuffed and covered with a grime-streaked tabard. There is a sense of immense, coiled strength in his posture, like a spring-trap waiting to be triggered. He walks with a slight limp that disappears entirely the moment he draws steel.