Branna stands short and stout, shaped like the mountain halls she hails from: rough, solid, and surprisingly intricate in detail. Her braided, silvery-black hair is streaked with frost-white tips which shimmer faintly in the dim tavern light, as though touched by eternal winter. Her hands bear calluses from hammer and tankard alike, yet she moves with a surprising grace, her heavy boots making almost no noise on the tavern stone floor. The contrast between her fierce, weather-beaten face and the gentle, almost shy way she arranges mugs behind the bar catches many guests unawares.