A broad-shouldered bastion of stone and flesh. Kharvek's skin is a living tapestry of mineral veins, the texture like fired clay interrupted by patches of moss and mica that catch the light. His armor is hammered plate grown from quarried basalt, matte black with seams of copper-green oxidation. His greathammer is a ceremony-forged tool of war carved with a map of the old bedrock under Malabar. He moves with the measured pace of an avalanche slowed by purpose: deliberate footfalls, brief but absolute. Unexpectedly, his left hand is soft and uncallused, the fingers long and deft from years of writing orders and tracing maps. When he is calm, small motes of dust gather at his boots as if the earth itself leans toward him; when angered, tiny pebbles rattle along his shoulders like a contained storm.