Ghorun moves like a weathered battering ram — deliberate, slightly slow, but terrifyingly inevitable. His skin is thick and pocked with old scars; along his left forearm runs a pale, raised track of keloid like a road map of past fights. His lower canine teeth are filed into blunt stubs and rimmed with dark iron bands (both trophy and tool). He keeps one eye nearly always half-closed as if calibrating distance; when both eyes widen, people feel small. Contradiction: despite his hulking frame and brutal profession, he carefully trims his nails and braids a thin leather thong into his beard, knotting a single bright green bead at the end — a keepsake he treats gently. He favors slow, grinding motions: he straightens chairs with a hand that could split oak, but will lift a sleeping child's chin to make sure they breathe.