Brommulf looks like a stone weathered into kindly life: squat and broad-shouldered, his beard braided not into braids of war but into bands threaded with sprigs of dried thyme, moss, and a single bright fern frond he refuses to let wilt. His face is a topography of little scars and lichen-like freckles; his nose is flattened from a childhood fall into a peat bog. He moves with surprising deliberation — a slow, sure crawl rather than the quick stomp most dwarves favor — and when he walks the hem of his cloak falls like a damp leaf, leaving a faint scent of loam. Contradiction shows in his hands: knuckle-burnished and calloused from stonework, yet his fingertips are stained green and often bear a smear of sap. He keeps one boot always muddier than the other as if he never quite trusts a path to be the same twice.