Jorren looks older than the lines on his face suggest: hair white as quenched steel, cropped short but for a single braided tuft tied with a faded blue ribbon. His skin is a map of tiny burn scars layered like dried riverbeds; a long, pale seam of scar tissue angles from temple to jaw where a shard once bit him. He wears a soot-dark apron over heavy leather and a patched chain shirt that has seen a hundred repairs. His hands are broad, callused yet remarkably steady, the fingertips stained with bronze and coal but with a neat crescent of polished skin at each nail as if he can't bear roughness there. He walks with a slow, deliberate gait — a small limp in the left leg from an old wound — but when he lifts a hammer or rushes to defend someone, his movements become brisk and economic, almost dancer-like. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small wooden toy horse tucked into a pocket of his apron and will take it out and spin it on the forge bench when thinking.