Bastien is a mountain of a man with shoulders that seem to span the width of his tavern doorway. His skin is the color of cured tobacco, mapped with a network of thin white scars from a life of street violence. He possesses a surprisingly delicate way of moving, a grace that contradicts his massive frame. His most striking feature is the contrast between his rough, calloused hands and the fine, lace-trimmed silk cravat he wears tucked into a stained leather blacksmith's apron. When he smiles, it does not always reach his eyes, which remain as cold and calculating as a banker's.