Short, squat, and perpetually soot-smudged, Old Tomas moves with the steady, deliberate gait of someone used to weighing blows as much as decisions. His beard is braided into three uneven plaits threaded with bits of scrap—copper wire, a bent spike, a tiny bell that jingles when he laughs—each braid worn and singed at the tips from years over the forge. His forearms are callused and freckled with tiny burn scars; his fingers are thick but nimble, the nails perpetually dark with soot. His clothes smell faintly of oil and roasted barley. Tomas favors a travel-worn leather apron with a dozen pockets, a patched wool tunic the color of old ale, and heavy hobnailed boots with soles shaved smooth from pacing the shop floor. He carries a short hammer that has seen better days; the head is polished from use, the handle wrapped in charred leather. Unexpectedly, he keeps a delicate silver thimble on a leather cord around his neck—a remnant of his younger sister's laughter—that gleams clean against the soot.