Short, weathered, and built like a laboring statue. Harrun moves with the careful economy of a man who has done the same motions for decades. His forearms are a map of pale scars and faint lines where old burns faded to silver. He always carries a coal-smudged leather apron even when he is not working. The skin of his hands is thick and callused, the nails darkened by soot. An unexpected element: he keeps a tiny glass bead tied to the inside of his apron with a scrap of red thread; he fingers it when thinking, as if it were a prayer bead or a child's toy.