Broad-shouldered and squat in the true dwarven way, Ulfnar moves with the slow assuredness of someone who measures time by the wheel. His braided beard is threaded with twine and little metal rings shaped like tiny grinding stones; fresh flour dusts the ends of each braid like perpetual frost. He wears soot-dark goggles pushed up on his brow when indoors, and a heavy leather apron scored with countless nicks and burn marks. One finger on his left hand is missing its tip, the stump wrapped in a neat silver filigree ring—an odd piece of delicate jewelry on a face otherwise weathered and rough. When he walks he tends to lean slightly forward as if bearing an invisible weight; when he laughs, though, his whole body relaxes and his hands flutter as if dusting off invisible flour.