Short and compact but with the slow, inexorable gait of someone who has spent decades bending to rock. His skin is a dust-sheen gunmetal with crevices of darker soot in the knuckles and scalp. His beard is closely cropped into a ragged, jagged line that looks more like the edge of a chisel than facial hair. Eyes are pale steel, almost reflective, and his left pupil bears a faint vertical scar that narrows it. He wears a battered miner's helm spiked with a single iron stud and a strip of cloth wound beneath it to keep the grit out. There is always a smear of damp ore dust on his right cheek that never fully washes away. Unexpected element: he carries a small, delicate music box fastened inside his breast wrap; when opened it plays a brittle lullaby that contrasts with his grimy, hard presence.