Thanderin towers unusually tall for a dwarf at just under 5 feet, with a broad, barrel chest and limbs gnarled from years of handling heavy machinery. His skin looks like burnished copper, covered in faint scars and soot smudges. His hair is a vivid rusty red, consistently singed at the ends—as if from a too-close engine blast—braided tight behind his head, weaving in tiny metal charms shaped like gears and lightning bolts. His beard is thick, streaked with silver, and braided with a thin strip of polished leather, which has become loose and unkempt in patches. His bright amber eyes gleam with intelligence and a hint of stubborn pride. He moves with an unexpected grace for his stocky frame, the faint clank of a mechanical brace on his left leg marking every step. Contradictorily, while his presence commands authority and toughness, his gaze often flickers with a softness reserved for the sky above and the crew he trusts. He smells faintly of oil and pine resin, as if he just emerged from the airship's engine room.