Broad-shouldered and compact in the true mountain-dwarf way, Berrun moves as if every step is measured and accounted for. His beard is a tight, iron-braided rope threaded with thin chisels and spent rivets. Rune scars travel across his forearms like cartography of past sieges, raised and dark against skin nicked by stone dust. He wears a breastplate inset with a small adamantine lens over the heart, dull but immaculate. When he walks he seems to test the ground with each footfall. Unexpectedly, he keeps a brittle paper map, edges softened by hands, folded in a pocket as if the dust of the mines could be traced in ink.