Bran moves like a man used to swinging hammers and shifting bellows: economical, weight-shifting steps, one shoulder slightly higher from years of levering anvils. He is usually streaked with soot in a deliberate diagonal band across his face, as if he wipes along a particular line to keep his vision clear. His forearms are layered in old burn scars and pale rings of metal where warped pieces sat too long; when he works, his veins stand out like knotted cords. Unexpectedly, he keeps a single braided ribbon of green silk tied to his hammer's haft — bright, clean, and oddly out of place amid the grime. His movements are precise but slow to smile; when he does, there is a surprising gentleness that contrasts with his brutish appearance.