Bran moves like someone who has spent a lifetime carrying casks and cradling fragile glass. His shoulders are broad and relaxed, his motions economical and precise. He favors an apron perpetually stained in concentric rings of old hops and molasses. His hands are callused and surprisingly clean, with pale crescents where nails catch grains. He keeps his beard clipped to a trimmed scruff that reveals a laugh-line scar along his left cheek. He often hums an old Crosswell work tune under his breath. Unexpectedly, he keeps a delicate glass bead rosary tucked into his pocket that he winds between fingers when worried, an item at odds with his practical exterior.