Garran moves like a man who measures wind and angle in equal measure. He wears a faded red cap with a single hawk feather thrust through the side, cocked at an angle. His face is a map of small scars and sun-creased lines; his beard is close-cropped and peppered with gray. His hands are stained with oil and soot at the fingertips, and one thumb has a silver burn ring where he once held a charge too long. He favors layered practical garments: padded leather under a patched studded harness that holds pockets for vials, fuses, and written schematics. Strapped across his back is an overbuilt longrifle with brass fittings and a carved hawk motif, and a roll of canvas with tools hangs from his hip. He carries a satchel of neatly labeled pouches; each pouch has a red stitch so he can feel the one he needs by touch. Unexpected element: beneath the utilitarian gear he keeps a small, immaculate child's sweater folded flat in a waterproof case, clean as the day it was knitted.