Barnaby is a mountain of a man who has begun to settle into a soft, round shape, much like the barrels he taps. He has a booming presence that seems to fill the tavern's common room. His skin is the texture of cured leather, deeply lined from years spent under the sun on trade routes. Most striking is his left hand, a prosthetic carved from dark oak with articulate fingers that click rhythmically when he is nervous. Despite his missing limb, he moves with a surprising, rolling grace, navigating crowded tables without ever spilling a drop of ale. His eyes are sharp and dancing with a mischievous glint that suggests he knows exactly what you're thinking before you say it.