Brontusk stands nine feet tall, a hulking giff whose skin has the mottled bronze sheen of a well-oiled boiler. Scars run like soldered seams across his forearms and jaw, each scar rimmed with tiny metallic beads tattooed into the flesh like rivets. He wears a patchwork bandolier of polished brass tubes and leather straps slung over a padded canvas apron heavy with pockets. One shoulder bears a dented pauldron made from the hull plating of a derelict spelljamming dinghy. His movements are deliberate and surprisingly nimble for his size; he flicks fingers with a clockmaker's precision, but when he laughs his belly chuffs steam from a small brass valve beneath his collarbone. Unexpectedly, he carries a faded child's ribbon tied to his blunderbuss stock, a soft thing that contradicts his metallic silhouette.