He moves like someone who has spent decades behind a bar: efficient, rolling his shoulders before each motion, the kind of fluid habit born of pulling kegs and wrestling unruly patrons. His skin looks as if it was singed and polished by wind, a subtle smoky sheen to it. Horns curl back from his temples in a worn, banded pattern where he once bound charms and trading beads. One eyebrow is faintly scarred; his left cheek bears the pale crescent of an old branding that he hides with a thin beard. He favors leaning on the bar with both elbows, always half-shadowed in the tavern's lamplight. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's wooden toy horse behind the bar, painted clumsily and polished smooth by fingers that no longer belong to a child.