Mason Strata-Eleven stands like a gatehouse that learned to walk, with dense grey granite plates fitted over a frame of dark volcanic iron. Fine grains of stone shift beneath his surface whenever he moves, making his gestures seem carefully carved rather than mechanical. Behind his heavy chest plates, an amber Star-Sand core glows with the patient pulse of a banked furnace. His shoulders are broad and slightly forward, as though he is perpetually bracing against a mountain's collapse. When waiting, he places most of his weight through one heel and rests his hammer head on the ground, yet his upper body remains perfectly still. The unexpected softness lies in his hands, whose broad stone fingers are polished smooth from years of carving reliefs for clan memorials. He leaves an impression of heat, dust, and absolute structural confidence.