Broad-shouldered and squat in the traditional dwarf way, Bryndel moves with the slow inevitability of a hammer stroke. His iron-grey beard is braided into three heavy ropes bound with bands of blackened copper and tiny anvils of silver wire. His face is weathered like hammered steel: a pitted forehead, a wide flattened nose, and a long crescent scar across his left knuckle — a pale ridged mark earned when his gauntlet failed during the great workstrike. He often wears a soot-smudged leather apron that smells faintly of oil and cinnamon (a scent he favors), and his boots have iron plates riveted across the toes. An unexpected soft thing clings to his person: a faded blue linen handkerchief embroidered with a child's crude stitchwork, folded into the inside pocket of his apron and kept immaculate despite the soot around it. When he walks through the Titan Forge, sparks seem to leap to greet him; when he is in council halls his gait is brisk and purposeful, almost courtly.