Standing a good head and shoulders taller than most humans, Karajok is a massive creature. Usually dressed in the flowing clothes of a desert nomad, he leaves little enough of his dusty-brown skin visible- only around the eyes and his forearms- but that which is exposed is covered in wicked-looking scars and tattoos of a strange, abstract design. To compound his strange appearance, his eyes are such a pale blue that, from a distance of more than a few feet, his eyes look almost pure white.

When he leaves his face uncovered, most people shrink away. Karajok's orcish heritage is obvious in his features- whereas some half-orcs could pass as human, Karajok would never be able to. His tusks are massive and jut forwards like a pair of ivory cleavers. The rest of his teeth are a jagged mess- some knocked askew in previous fights, and one or two even replaced with a crude metal spikes. Scarring around his mouth speaks of Karajok's willingness to employ both tusks and teeth as weapons when he needs to- and the depth and obvious strength of his jaw only enhances the apparent threat.

While his appearance is enough to attract attention, the set of gleaming, silvery manacles around his wrist draw even more scrutiny. While they are clearly designed to hold a prisoner, they are ornate beyond belief. Each one has a tiny mural winding around the manacle, picked out in incredible detail. The chains dangling from them are a different matter entirely. On his left hand, the chain is broken off a hand's width below the shackle. But from his right hangs a chain that could have been forged by a demon. Nearly six feet of blackened steel, with hooks and barbs jutting from its length- each inscribed with a series of black runes that seem to devour the light. In places, the fangs of some sort of beast forced between the links, only adding to its ferocious appearance. The chain trails from the manacle to wind around Karajok's torso, forming a crude sort of belt.

Over the past couple of years, the half-orc has begun to carry a small arsenal of weapons with him. On one hip hangs a bow of gnollish make, along with a matching quiver of arrows, both stripped of the trophies that once adorned it. An ancient, black blade of incredibly fine make hangs at an angle across his back, unblemished by the passing of the years. Crossing it on the opposite angle is a long-handled pole-hammer, the metal head pitted and scarred by conflict. And finally, another ancient blade hangs next to the bow, kept hidden beneath his cloak and wrapped in muffling linen- similar in make to the black blade, but different in subtle ways.

Karajok's voice is at odds with his appearance, for he rarely speaks in any more than hushed tones. His accent wavers between harsh and gravelly on some words, and a musical lilt on others. Even when completely calm, there is an intensity to Karajok that is somewhat unnerving. When his temper frays, his voice rises to a roar that seems to have more in common with an earthquake than a mortal voice.

Even at the best of times, a trail of small accidents seem to follow Karajok- cups spilled, lanterns going out in small breezes or loose pieces of parchment being seized by the wind. At the worse times, an unnatural chill hangs around him and the air itself seems to claw at him- though the observant would note that the chill offers no respite from the heat, and the lashing winds surrounding him do not stir the air at all.