Bramble looks like someone who wears the dawn in his sleeves. He is small even for a gnome but moves with a surprising spring, as if each step weighs two moods lighter. His robes are stitched from sun-faded linen and patched velvet; many patches are embroidered with tiny constellations and alchemical sigils. He carries a satchel festooned with glass vials and a crooked oak wand bound with copper wire and a sliver of sunstone at the tip. When casting, a faint halo of light pools under his shoes and his shadow sometimes lingers a hair-length behind him. Unexpectedly, his left sleeve is always singed at the cuff, though he insists he never burns himself, and he wears a child's wooden toy crown tucked behind his ear — an old gift he refuses to remove. In movement he is both brisk and deliberate: like a sparrow plotting a careful route through a storm.