Brommund moves like someone who has spent decades behind a bar and in cramped cellarways: efficient, sure-footed, and with a steady weight to every step. His beard is a braided tumble of ash-gray rope that smells faintly of smoked barley and beeswax. His face is a patchwork of small, pale scars—each a story he will rarely tell—and his nose is crooked from an old bar brawl. He wears his ale-stained leather apron over a neatly patched wool tunic; sleeves rolled to forearms that are inked with a subtle cartography of tavern marks and sigils. When he laughs, he claps one hand over his chest as if adjusting a belt; when listening, he tilts his head forward so his beard brushes the counter. Unexpectedly, his left eye is a bright, almost out-of-place, sea-glass blue while the right is a deep brown, and he favors tiny glass monocles set on a brass pin to read ledgers—an odd scholar's touch in a rough barkeep.