Tarin looks like a man hammered into shape by decades of heat and hard weather, with soot lodged in the wrinkles around his eyes and a permanent half-squint from years of judging glowing metal. He moves with a careful, economical stride, as if every step is measured against an invisible anvil line, yet his hands are quick and elegant. His left forearm bears a lattice of pale burn scars that resemble river maps, while the right hand is impeccably clean except for a black crescent under the thumb nail that never quite washes away. The most surprising thing about him is his immaculate white collar pinned beneath a leather smith's apron, a small touch of old courtliness in a man who smells like charcoal, oil, and rain on stone.