Bramblek looks like a pocket-sized weathered gardener who has spent more time with roots than roofs. His face is a mapped tapestry of laugh lines and a pale white scar that curls like a vine from his left eyebrow to his cheek. He walks with a low, rhythmic bounce and keeps one hand habitually tracing the rim of his hat as if tuning it. His hooded cloak is threaded with moss that occasionally still holds a drop of dew. Contradiction: his eyes sparkle with mischievous childlike curiosity while his hands are stained and knotted as if decades older.