Branric moves like a man who has learned to measure footfalls against a wall's breath. He is weathered but not worn; his jaw is square, cheekbones dusted with a permanent film of grit from the southern wall he patrols. A thin pale scar slices his left eyebrow and vanishes into a crow's-foot at the temple. His leather coat is heavily patched at the elbows with mismatched leather pieces — city-issued on the inside, a softer green-barked leather sewn over it where makers' marks show a Menestrel tailor's fanciful stitch. Over his heart he wears the hammered iron gauntlet badge of the Order of the Gauntlet, dull with use but carefully oiled. His crossbow sits in a simple sling across his back, bolts in a horn-lined quiver; at his belt hangs a short, clean blade and a small, folded music sheet. When he walks he favors a slight lean toward his left shoulder — a memory of an old wound — and when he is still he will often close his eyes as if listening to a place the rest of the city cannot hear. The unexpected: he keeps a neatly pressed child's feather tucked into the cuff of his left sleeve, incongruously delicate against the gauntlet.