Bramon moves like someone used to stairs and salt wind: a slow, deliberate gait with the readiness of a man who can spring when needed. He keeps his left sleeve rolled to the elbow, exposing a faded tattoo of a gull and an anchor that snakes down to a scar on his forearm. His face is weathered in a way that reads both hospitality and hard hours—crow's-feet etched deep, cheeks that still flush easily when he laughs. He favors a short, neat beard shot through with gray; his hair is cropped close at the temples and long enough at the nape to curl around his collar. His hands are ink-stained from ledger work but callused at the knuckles from rope and rapier practice. Unexpectedly, he wears a small, polished monocle on a leather cord that he uses not for sight but to peer at the texture of bread crusts and the weave of cloth, a habit from a long-ago apprenticeship. When he stands behind the bar he is warm and expansive, when a knife is drawn he becomes a still cliff.