Garmer is the stoic, pragmatic one. Garmer Ramoutar carries himself with quiet dignity, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but earns it nonetheless. His frame is tall and solid, his movements precise—every gesture considered, every word weighed. His skin is warm-toned, his voice low and composed, like distant thunder over still water. Thick, dark hair is swept back neatly, and his deep-set eyes—almost black—seem to see beyond surface truths. Unlike some of his more fiery peers, Garmer is methodical in his faith, treating each ritual and training exercise as a form of meditation. His tabard bears the symbol of their order, but his is marked with subtle embellishments from his homeland—intricate threadwork near the hem, a prayer charm tucked beneath the folds.

He’s the one others turn to when tempers flare or doubts creep in, not because he has all the answers, but because he listens—and rarely offers platitudes. Garmer is still learning, like the rest of them, but there’s a gravity in him that hints at future command, or perhaps a deeper calling yet to be revealed.