Compact and solid as a carved keg, Brynna moves with a surprising catlike economy. Her face is weathered like hammered copper—tiny radial scars fan from a healed slice on her left cheek, and the bridge of her nose bears a faint burn-mark etched into the skin. Her beard is short and meticulously braided with a single steel ring threaded through the center braid (a wedding ring repurposed). She favors a leather waist-apron stitched with soot-darkened patterns and a heavy wool cloak that smells faintly of iron filings and spiced ale. Her boots are slightly too worn at the inside ankle from years of a particular step she makes when sidling along bar counters. Despite her squat build she carries an elegant, foldable throwing blade hidden beneath the apron—its handle polished to a mirror sheen. Unexpectedly, she wears a single, pristine velvet glove on her left hand, embroidered with small anvils; it never looks out of place in the tavern but reads like a relic of some softer, un-Dwarven past.