Garrik Holt looks carved out of weathered oak and old battle smoke. He is broad shouldered and thick through the chest, but his stance is slightly forward, as if his body has spent years bracing against a gale that never fully stops. His left ear has a split ridge from a pike wound, and one eyebrow never quite lies flat where an old burn scar pulled it tight. He wears a practical surprise for such a hard man: a neatly stitched red scarf, faded almost to rust, tucked under his gorget, a gift from his late wife that he still refuses to replace. His movements are economical and economical only until alarm bells ring, when he becomes startlingly quick, all angles and snapped turns like a gate slammed shut.