Short even by dwarf standards but compact to the point of looking like a rock with a pulse. He moves with surprising quickness between anvil and bellows, each step deliberate. His apron is stained in concentric rings of scale and soot where hammers struck; the apron has been patched with hammered coin and an old patch of a rival clan's tartan sewn inside so only he knows it is there. A single faint scar traces from his left temple down through a braided portion of beard, pale against dark hair. When he stands still he leans on the haft of his greataxe like a foreman resting on his cane. Unexpected element: he always wears a thin silk kerchief around his neck beneath the blacksmith apron, the only soft thing on him, embroidered with tiny hopvine blossoms.