Thorvald is a broad-shouldered outsider with the weathered authority of a master smith and the quiet stillness of a judge who has already heard every excuse. His skin gleams like hammered bronze beneath soot, with tiny silver flecks that catch the light like sparks buried under ash. A thick beard falls in two split braids, each bound with black iron rings stamped with old sigils, while one eyebrow is permanently singed shorter than the other. He moves with measured, economical precision, as if every gesture has been practiced beside a forge fire for centuries. The contradictory detail is his immaculate white apron, which is always spotless no matter how much smoke or blood surrounds him, making him look at once like a furnace god and a patient innkeeper.