Rosy-cheeked and plump with the perpetual look of someone who’s just finished a second helping, Beric moves with surprising lightness—a quick shuffle and a soft, deliberate sway. His face is a map of laugh lines, a small crescent scar at the left temple and a faded burn on the inside of his left forearm. He favors an embroidered waistcoat stitched with tiny wheat sheaves and half-hidden sigils, and carries a brass keyring at his belt; he polishes a brass mug with one hand whenever he talks. Unexpectedly, his left ear is pierced three times and braided with a sliver of blue ribbon—a relic of a youthful frolic with river-gnomes—and he hums an off-key sea shanty when nervous. He gives the impression of perpetual comfort, but there is a quicksilver alertness behind his smile that notices things others do not.