Brom stands shorter than most humans but projects the presence of a throne: he moves as if the room bends to make space. His skin is weathered like old parchment, mottled with ink-dark sigils that pulse faintly when he speaks debts into being. He favors a cropped, curly beard braided with copper wire and tiny talismans that chime if he laughs (rarely). His coat is cut like a magistrate's robe but patched with leather pockets and reinforced seams; when he walks the hem never quite brushes the ground — as if unseen hands lift it out of respect. Unexpectedly, his left hand is entirely mechanical: brass plates, exposed gears, and a single gem that throbs with a slow crimson light. It looks fragile but can rearrange itself into lockpicks, a quill, a knife, or a summoning sigil on command, and it smells faintly of tobacco and ozone.