Bromli moves like a stone cart downhill: deliberate, reliable, and with a small rhythmic creak. He wears a leather apron over layered wool and a short, thick coat patched with swatches from cities across the trade routes. His beard is braided into three cords, each cord threaded with tiny metal trinkets — a broken clock hand, a dull thimble, a carved bone bead — souvenirs of bargains and lives touched. His skin is freckled with old soot and sun, and his left ear is scarred where a knife once nicked him in a tavern row. He carries a battered oak measuring rod with iron inlays that doubles as a cane. Unexpectedly, his eyes light with a youthful mischief when he talks about children's books and lullabies; his hands fidget with origami paperings he keeps folded in his apron when nervous.