Hargun is compact and knotted like a weathered anvil. His beard is braided into three heavy cords wrapped with copper wire and tiny gears that click softly as he moves. His skin is pocked from decades of sparks and acid splatter; faint white scars lace his forearms like old rivulets. He wears a soot-dark leather apron reinforced with hammered iron plates over a faded forest-green tunic. Goggles rest perpetually atop his head, lenses cloudy with residue, one lens cracked and fitted with a sliver of polished amber that glows faintly when he concentrates. He moves with the deliberate precision of someone used to lifting heavy things and measuring thrice; his hands are callused but quick. Unexpectedly, Hargun hums nursery rhymes under his breath while calculating, an odd softness behind a weathered face that unsettles first-time customers.