Short and broad-shouldered, Torbin moves like a living anvil: deliberate, grounded, and incapable of hurry unless the bellows demand it. His beard is thick and long, braided into three soot-streaked plaits tipped with tiny copper rings shaped like anvils. His skin bears faint white scars — etchings of runecraft more than wounds — along forearms and fingers, each one a calibration mark from experiments gone right and wrong. He wears a heavy leather apron mottled with burn marks and metal shavings, a tool-laden belt that jangles soft harmonic clinks when he walks, and an odd, incongruous pair of polished monocles perched on his forehead: one lens smoky from flame, the other clear and etched with minute charts. When calm, his movements are economical and confident; when excited, his hands twitch in precise micro-adjustments as if tightening invisible screws.