Bromli stands just under 4 feet tall, his stout frame wrapped in a soot-streaked leather aviator coat lined with woven mithril threads. His iron-grey beard is braided into intricate knots, each knot pinned with tiny gears and copper wires that occasionally whir and click softly. His skin is weathered and creased by countless days exposed to biting winds above the clouds. His eyes, a piercing stormy blue, gleam with a restless spark of invention and stubborn pride. Unusually, one of his fingers ends in a finely crafted brass prosthetic fingertip with a small hidden toolset, a mark of both loss and ingenuity. His movements are brisk but deliberate, with the confident grace of one accustomed to balancing atop shifting planks and hydraulic rigging. When at rest, he often taps an erratic rhythm on his leg or the side of the barge, betraying a mind always ticking ahead. Despite his tough exterior, when he smiles it’s genuine, revealing a gap in his teeth from an old mining accident.