An old scar passes vertically over Vuryk's left eye, rendering the pupil there a milky color that would seem blind if it were not for the way in which it still moved and stared with the same crude intensity of the other, healthy eye. Thin lips conceal the jutting points of tuskish extended canines, the top of one chipped and blunted. His heavy, large frame is carried with a bestial grace. Sinewy, vicious strength broadening his shoulders and giving his arms the stout shape of strength. His skin is dark, almost ebony in tone and marked in places by the paler residue of old, healed wounds. He carries himself with a primal sort of arrogance and he stalks the streets, forests, deserts all with the same confidence.