Brokka looks like a moving boulder: broad-shouldered and compact, his skin mottled with pale gray patches like lichen. He wears his hair in a single long braid tied with a rusted ring of copper that clinks softly when he walks. Scars map his forearms and left cheek in clean, pale arcs; one particularly deep scar splits his right eyebrow and is decorated with a tiny braided leather thong threaded through the healed edges. He favors a sleeveless wool jerkin left open over bare chest and a patchwork of boiled leather plates strapped across his back like a second spine. His movements are deliberate and surprisingly light for his size—he lands an uphill step with the careful rhythm of a climber, but when angered he moves with sudden, jagged bursts. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small carved wooden whistle on a leather thong around his neck that he uses to serenade mountain ravens at dusk, speaking to them in low coos and offering crumbs from his pack.