Darron moves with deliberate and controlled steps, the kind born of decades hammering iron and weighing responsibility. His broad shoulders are draped in a soot-darkened leather apron, cracked and patched, a souvenir from years spent beside blazing forges. His face is weathered and angular, with a crease running from the corner of his mouth to his chin as if fate once twisted his lips into a reluctant, permanent grimace. His hair, a tangled mix of steel gray and black, falls unevenly beneath a scorched leather cap — a contradictory mark of both pride in his craft and practicality. Most strikingly, one of his hands bears a faint blue tattoo of ancient dwarvish runes, partially faded, a relic from a stranger’s desperate gift long ago.