Bryn looks like a weather-beaten traveler who has walked through every season without ever quite arriving anywhere. His skin is brown and dry from wind, salt, and open skies, with fine pale lines around his mouth that resemble old map marks. His jaw is broad, and when he smiles, one blunt lower canine shows too prominently, giving his otherwise patient expression a faintly wolfish cast. His hair hangs in coarse iron-gray ropes tied with bits of colored thread, each thread representing a promise someone failed to keep. He moves with the steady, economical balance of a sailor on a deck, yet he is strangely delicate when touching small objects. He smells faintly of wet stone, crushed thyme, and extinguished hearth smoke. The unexpected thing about him is his hands: they are soft, clean, and almost childlike, despite the rest of him suggesting a lifetime of labor.