Short and stocky, Harvin measures barely four feet but carries himself with a weight far beyond his stature. His braided beard is peppered with gray streaks, intertwined with tiny iron beads shaped like miniature anvils and cogs, each one a keepsake from famed forges or merchant caravans. His skin is rough and callused, often smeared with dust and grime from the storerooms and supply wagons he oversees. Unexpectedly, his left eye glows faintly amber in dim light, a birthmark rumored to be a blessing by a forgotten earth spirit, lending him a strangely intense gaze. When he walks, he moves with surprising lightness, the sound of his heavy boots muffled almost to silence, betraying a practiced subtlety honed from years sneaking through hostile camps or sidestepping bartered disputes.