Bomren Tidesspur moves with a casual, unhurried stride, his gait betraying neither urgency nor slowness. His tangled, fiery red hair seems perpetually windblown, almost like it resists taming, spilling over the collar of his modest brown linen shirt. His green eyes flicker with quicksilver sharpness beneath thick brows, while an uneven, patchy moustache curves awkwardly on his upper lip, a deliberate affectation or the nails of countless careless mornings. The assortment of small iron tools hanging from his belt clinks softly as he walks, their tin tinkle oddly offset by an occasional soft whistle, the tune changeable and reflecting his mood. Despite his plain garments, there’s a strange aura of luck that seems to ripple around him, like shadows of unseen coin purses opening or dice tumbling in pockets elsewhere—though the source of this luck remains his secret. Unexpectedly, he always sports immaculate, spotless boots, a sharp contradiction to his otherwise humble and worn clothing.