Coren stands with the compact steadiness of a practiced smith and a soldier: shoulders squared, feet planted as if on a forge floor. His half plate is scuffed and carefully oiled, fitted to allow the swing of a longsword; the left pauldron bears improvised dents, each with a story. His shield — a round heater with a faded bear paw, painted in ochre and dark brown — looks older than his years; someone has carved small initials and tiny pictographs along the rim in the halfling style. He wears a leather apron slung under the armor when traveling, and his hands still show the fine burns and calluses of the forge. Movement-wise, he is deliberate and slightly springy: an unhurried walk that can snap into guarded readiness. Unexpectedly, he keeps a string of tiny glass beads — gifts from a gnome tinkerer — braided into his beard; they click faintly when he laughs, which is rare but genuine.