Bramble Oakenhollow looks built from the same rough honesty as the fields outside the village. Their hands are broad and scarred, the fingers stained permanently dark by cider lees, lamp soot, and old ink. They move with a soft, efficient economy, as if every step has been measured against the width of a crowded taproom aisle. A faded green apron hangs over a sturdy wool vest, but the apron is always impeccably clean in the places guests can see, which feels faintly impossible. Their left ear is nicked, their nose once broken and never quite reset, and there is a surprising elegance to the way they polish a glass, as if they were handling a reliquary instead of a drinking cup.