Garric moves with the economy of a man who has spent years loading wagons and reading terrain. He stands squared and presentable but never rigid. His armor bears the faint curved gouges of river stones and the dark mottled stains of caravan spice markets. Across his left forearm is a faded leather bracer stitched with the outline of a small hawk. He keeps a folded scrap of a faded traveler's map tucked under his breastplate where the metal is worn thinner; when he adjusts it his fingers rub the edges like a small ritual. Unexpectedly, his right boot is always impeccably polished while his gloves are perpetually caked in dust, a contradiction that unsettles those who meet him.