Brandr moves like someone who spent half his life balancing barrels and the other half balancing conversation. He is rarely still; his fingers drum an absent rhythm on tabletops, and his shoulders have a faint stoop from years leaning over casks. He wears a faded sea-green waistcoat patched at the elbows and a long apron streaked with ale and ink. One cheek bears a thin jagged scar that stops just shy of his temple, and his left ear is threaded with a ring of tiny carved wooden charms. Unexpectedly he keeps a delicate silver chain woven through his hair that catches light when he laughs, an incongruous touch of elven refinement in a rough tavern guise.