Bryn Sarr is an enormous goliath with the compact, weathered strength of someone who has hauled wet rope, lifted floodgates, and slept on stone platforms more often than in a bed. His slate-gray skin is patterned with pale mineral freckles across the shoulders and forearms, like chalk dust caught beneath the surface. He has a broad, heavy jaw and blunt square teeth, several capped in dull brass from years of cracking river nuts and chewing reed-stems during council sessions. His laugh shows nearly all of them at once, which makes it unexpectedly boyish for a man whose silence can stop a room. He moves with careful economy, never wasting a gesture, yet his hands constantly measure invisible distances as though mapping canals in the air. The contradictory impression is immediate: he looks like a siege engine dressed for work, but he handles cups, children, and injured laborers with extraordinary delicacy.