Branor stands taller than most guards on the wall, a hulking but graceful figure whose movement is more forest-stalk than city patrol. His hair is braided into a thick rope that hangs over one shoulder, threaded with bits of copper wire and a single broken crossbow fang; the braid is kept damp with a faint pine-scented oil. His skin bears a cool, stone-like texture—paler than most fierbolgs, with surface scars that look like lichen at a distance. He wears one heavy leather pauldron on his right shoulder, studded and burnished, while the left side is left bare so his longbow arm moves unimpeded. On the inside of his left forearm is a faded, hand-stitched patch from a childhood hunting cloak: three white thorns embroidered in a triangular pattern. When he walks along the battlements he favors the crenellations' shadows and moves with the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who has measured every footstep a thousand times. Unexpectedly, when he laughs his whole face crinkles into a soft, almost youthful grin that contradicts his otherwise severe presence.