Valerius stands with the rigidity of an iron pike. His skin is the color of storm-lashed granite, mapped with a network of fine white scars that trace the history of a hundred skirmishes. His movement is deceptively slow and deliberate, suggesting the weight of mountain stone. He has heavy, calloused hands that never seem to shake. Paradoxically, despite his rugged, mud-stained exterior and the constant smell of ozone from the wall wards, he maintains a meticulously groomed mustache and smells faintly of imported lavender oil, a small luxury that reminds him of his wife's garden before the wars.