Bram Soot looks like someone carved out of old shop wood and polished by years of wiping counters. He is broad through the shoulders but has the weary, compact posture of a man who has spent decades dodging falling crates and drunk elbows. His hands are scarred, neat, and always busy, with ink stains in the creases and a permanent pinch between thumb and forefinger as if he is forever measuring grain, nails, or patience. He moves in short, efficient cuts rather than strides, except when the tavern next door gets loud, at which point he becomes eerily swift. The odd thing about him is his immaculate white apron, crisp enough to look ceremonial, worn over a soot-gray shirt with one sleeve carefully rolled and the other left buttoned tight as though he is prepared for either a flood or a funeral.