Ghorun moves like a mountain: slow in build-up but unstoppable once momentum gathers. He stands broad and blunt-edged, each step sounding slightly hollow on stone as if he walks with the memory of caverns in his bones. His skin is a marbled gray—granite flecked with veins of pale blue that pulse faintly when he channels power. He wears a long, weather-darkened travel cloak that has the soft, faded pattern of his clan's storm-runes along the hem; under it, scars and ritual tattoos spiral across his shoulders and down his forearms like lightning. His hair is a tight crown-braid of iron-gray that ends in a single knotted tassel threaded with a small rusted bell. Unexpectedly gentle calluses mark the pads of his thick fingers, and he keeps a tiny, hand-carved wooden toy tucked in his armor—its paint rubbed nearly bare. Up close, his face is surprisingly expressive: a storm-browed giant who blinks like a shepherd watching lambs, and who sometimes hums a lullaby under his breath during the fiercest thunderstorms.