Garron carries the weathered permanence of someone tied to metal and hearth. His skin is blotched from old burns and smudge lines that never fully wash away. Deep-set crow's feet run from the corners of his eyes to his temples. Tattoos of small hammer-and-wave motifs trace his forearms in faded black ink; they are partly obscured by permanent soot. He moves with the slow, efficient economy of a craftsman but, unexpectedly, when he laughs his whole torso bobs forward with an old sailor's looseness, a reminder of a youthful life spent on a different road. His left thumb is slightly crooked from a long-healed fracture that left the nail permanently forked. When standing still he unconsciously taps his fingers in a rhythm that matches the anvil's chime.