Bromun moves like a rock that has learned to dance: deliberate, compact, and with surprising grace when he needs it. He stands with a perpetual smear of soot along the left side of his face that never quite brushes off, as if the forge itself favors his cheek. His beard is thick and braided into three ropes, each braid threaded with copper wire and a single dull iron ring engraved with old clan runes. His hands are broad and cracked, with pale scars running like rivers where metal cooled too quickly against skin. He favors a leather apron patched with dozens of small pockets, each pocket containing a tool, a scrap of metal, or a tiny folded note. When he talks about his work his eyes brighten and his shoulders loosen; when threatened they narrow and his jaw sets like hammered steel. Unexpectedly, he wears a faded green wool scarf—soft and almost delicately smelling of lavender—tucked under his apron, a small comfort he keeps despite the grime.