Brann is a wiry old man folded slightly at the waist, as though he has spent a lifetime bowing to horses, hitches, and weather. His skin is parchment-thin and wind-burned, lined with deep laugh creases that make him look merry even when he is worried. His white hair is wispy and constantly escaping from behind one ear, while his beard hangs uneven and untrimmed like bleached twine. He moves with a slow, creaky shuffle until something needs lifting, calming, or catching, at which point he becomes startlingly quick. He wears patched wool, a salt-stained cloak with the smell of hay and rain trapped in the seams, and boots that are so old the leather has gone nearly smooth like driftwood. The oddest thing about him is a bright blue ribbon tied around his wrist, carefully kept clean, which looks absurdly delicate against his rough hands.