Brenwick moves like someone used to tiny rooms and crowded councils: slow-footed, deliberate, with an unhurried grace that makes every gesture seem measured. His white hair is cloudlike and combed back from a high brow, but a single long braid hangs down the left side of his face, braided with thin silver wire and a scrap of midnight-blue silk. He favors fine, fitted coats cut to halfling proportions that bear embroidered urban scenes along the hems. The jewelry—several signet rings and a heavy pocket watch on a chain—glitters against worn leather gloves. When he smiles, a small gap appears between two front teeth, and his laugh comes out as a surprised little cough. Unexpectedly, his left sleeve is perpetually singed at the cuff and the inside is smoked: a souvenir of a spell gone wrong years ago, which he tends to hide with deliberate adjustments of his glove.