A handsome young Swede with a broad, practical face and a compact, work-hardened frame. His hair lies in pale-blond, slightly coarse waves that never stay combed for long; his skin is fair and wind-reddened across the nose. He moves as if every floor might be unsound: heel placed carefully, weight tested before commitment, shoulders angled to keep a clear path to the nearest support. In a room, his eyes go first to beams, lintels, windows, and the feet of whoever is moving, not to faces. He smells faintly of damp wool, pine pitch, and the bitter metal tang of cold tools, a scent he never notices. The unexpectedly domestic touch is a tiny, neatly folded scrap of floral cloth tucked into his belt, kept clean and handled with reverence.

Steady and blunt, but not unfeeling: Gunnar will carry a stranger's pack without comment and then complain sharply if they ignore a safety warning. In a crisis he becomes precise, economical, and calm; in private, fatigue makes him nostalgic and unexpectedly tender toward small reminders of his former life. He wants to be useful, yet dislikes being treated as a tool. His practical confidence is real, but so is his grief, which he often disguises as irritation.

Before displacement, Gunnar worked as a civil engineer, trusted to spot the quiet mistake that could turn a bridge or retaining wall into a disaster. He woke in Sweden in the body of a handsome young man, with a local accent and a life that was not his. The first weeks were spent checking his hands, his reflection, and the world for any explanation that would make the change reversible. During an early shelter-building effort, he argued that a roof frame was safe, then heard a support crack under a load he had misjudged because the timber and joinery were unfamiliar. Nobody died, but the near collapse changed his habits: he now tests every unfamiliar material twice and admits uncertainty aloud. He became the builder and load-bearer of the Seven at the Smoke-Bend, a displaced adventuring party and mutual-aid circle. He misses the people he left behind more than he says, and resents anyone who calls his new body a blessing. He teaches Bram and Wulfstan to shave with a steady hand and a clean blade, then sharply tells them to stop behaving strangely around Aino. He has begun to suspect the cold, bitter taste that rises when he is frightened might be tied to his pale Lind-worm heritage, but he refuses to let speculation pass for engineering.