Bromli moves like a rock with a grin: deliberate, warm, and slightly cantankerous. His face is a map of old campfires and spilled ales — deep laugh lines cut by a jagged scar that slices through his left eyebrow and ends in a tiny white crescent above his cheek. He wears a heavy leather apron scarred with burn marks and patched with mismatched leather squares taken from old boots. On his forearms are faint, soot-darkened tattoos of hammer strikes in a runic pattern; they disappear under his sleeves but show when he wipes a mug. Contrary to his squat, sturdy silhouette, his fingers are slim and callused, almost delicate when he polishes a glass or carves a tiny wooden charm for a child. When he moves through the tavern he does so with the quiet confidence of someone who can find every loose coin in the room and every secret in a whispered corner.