Rowan moves with the steady, economical motions of someone who has spent decades shaping metal. His forearms are corded with muscle and scar tissue, with faded burn rings where bellows and sparks once licked his skin. He keeps his hair shaved close at the temples but lets a long, steel-gray braid fall down his back. His hands are perpetually faintly sooty and smell of oil and hot iron. He favors working with a pair of lenses perched low on his nose and often chews a toothpick when thinking. Unexpectedly, he wears a small, delicate silver locket beneath his apron that glints with an engraved wave motif; it looks almost fragile against his broad chest.