Brock

Brock's body is massive, not polished or ornamental, but earned. Thick arms corded with muscle are slick with mud and water, veins standing out like roots beneath bark. His shoulders are broad enough to block a path, his chest heavy and scarred, carrying the quiet testimony of fights survived and burdens borne. This is strength that didn’t come from mirrors or admiration; it came from necessity. From lifting what had to be lifted. From standing when it would have been easier to fall. Dark hair hangs loose and damp around his face, streaked with grime, framing features cut hard by experience. His beard is full and rough, the kind that scratches when he laughs and bristles when he’s angry. His eyes are deep-set and shadowed, watchful and tired—but not dull. There’s intelligence there, and something else too: a steadiness that suggests he’s seen fear up close and learned not to flinch. Right now, he’s trapped—sunken deep into thick, clinging earth that grips him like it means to keep him. The mud drags at his torso, swallows his strength inch by inch, and yet he hasn’t panicked. His jaw is set, teeth clenched, breath controlled. He’s the kind of man who measures danger instead of shouting at it. The kind who wastes no motion, no words. His gear is worn and practical, strapped tight against his body. Nothing decorative. Everything useful. Even weighed down and half-immobilized, he radiates capability. You can tell that if he gets free, the ground itself will regret slowing him. And yet—despite the roughness, the grit, the intimidating presence—there’s a softness buried deep beneath all that armor. You see it in the way his brow furrows, not just in frustration but in concern—perhaps for someone else who might wander too close. You sense it in the restraint he shows, the patience with which he endures the mud instead of raging against it. This is a man who knows how easily strength can become cruelty, and chooses otherwise. He’s gruff by habit. His voice w