Bjornhald moves with the deliberate grace of a man who’s spent decades shaping metal; thick fingers nimble despite their bulk. His face is a map of his life – weathered yet rugged – crowned with wild, ash-grey hair streaked with silver. His beard is braided with thin strips of leather, each knot a silent mark of a personal victory or loss. His eyes, a piercing stormy blue, hold a paradoxical warmth but flash dangerously when provoked. He wears a soot-streaked leather apron over a fine wool tunic that appears too delicate for his coarse trade, the contrast telling of an unexpected old-world gentility. Most curious is the set of faded runic tattoos curling along his left forearm beneath a fine silver bracer—symbols of protective spells long given up, a contradiction to his old, pragmatic stance.