Mugor is a small mountain of aged muscle draped with folds of skin, each wrinkle like a weathered growth ring. He is completely bald; the top of his head shines like a polished knot, catching sunlight and reflecting it in a dull, warm glare. His jaw is heavy and worn, sporting two faint broken tusks that curve inward and are filed smooth. His hands are broad, with calluses like bark ridges and thin scars scored along the knuckles where a carving went wrong. He wears a patched leather apron layered over a wool tunic—both stained with sap, dyes, and charcoal. On his left forearm is an inlay of tiny wooden beads woven into the skin, a folk ritual he carved and then had grafted into flesh decades ago. He walks with a slow, deliberate shuffle that makes little noise; yet when he moves to work, his motion is quick, economical, and mesmerizing. Unexpectedly, his eyes gleam with a youthful mischief when he is pleased, as if a child hides inside his creases.