Hrundak moves like a mountain wearing the memory of a storm: each step deliberate, sure, with a padded thud that announces his presence before his voice does. His skin carries the pale, slate-gray freckling common to his people, but along his forearms and chest are faint, almost-white scars shaped like tally marks — measurements of brawls and debts. He wears a broad leather apron rubbed to a deep black at the knees and pockets, and a heavy cloak stitched inside with pockets and loops for mugs, ledgers, and a rusted iron tendon of a bell. When he leans on the bar, his hands are gentle and precise, as if a potter's wheel were beneath them; yet when he straightens, the air tightens. An unexpected softness undercuts his roughness: a narrow brass locket, worn on a leather thong and tucked beneath his shirt, with a tiny faded braid of someone else’s hair inside. His movements during work are practiced and economical, but in private he often jiggles the chain of the locket unconsciously, and his laugh, when it comes, is a wide, surprised bark that ends in a rueful hum.