Thromgar is a heavily muscled, broad-shouldered dwarf whose body seems built for bracing collapsing tunnels rather than sitting in courtly chairs. His braided white beard is thick as rope, carefully waxed near the roots but singed into uneven black curls at the ends. Deep weathering lines ring his dark eyes, which rarely look at a speaker's face. Instead, they travel over hinges, lintels, floor joints, belt buckles, and ceiling seams, measuring failure before conversation has properly begun. His hands are broad, calloused, and stippled with tiny silver burns from molten metal. He moves with a deliberate, slightly forward-leaning gait, as if the whole world were a slope he intended to hold in place. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate grooming: beneath the soot and work grime, every beard braid is numbered with tiny brass rings and maintained with almost obsessive precision.