Broad shouldered and perpetually dusted in fine gray soot, Toren moves with the deliberate, economical motions of someone who spends hours shaping metal. His forearms are corded like rope and crisscrossed with faded burn scars and pale raised lines from old blisters. He favors a heavy leather apron studded with small iron rivets worn shiny where he grips it. His left index finger is missing its tip, replaced by a neat little brass cap he fashioned for himself. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small sprig of bright green moss tucked behind his ear that he waters in secret when he bathes, a stubborn echo of Greenroot Hollow in his person.