Branoc is a tall, narrow man who seems almost to be leaning forward into the world, as if perpetually stepping out of a river current only he can feel. His black hair hangs in a straight, damp-looking fall to his shoulders, though it is usually dry, and his pale skin carries a faint blue cast like moonlight on deep water. Fine silver tattoos spiral across his throat, collarbones, forearms, and ribs in temple script and creation motifs, each line inked so precisely it resembles stained glass traced in thread. His robes are plain at first glance, but the hems are lined with tiny stitched glyphs and weighted with bits of polished glass that chime softly when he moves. The contradiction that makes people remember him is his expression: he has the serene face of a chapel saint, but the posture and footwork of a fencer ready to spring across a rooftop.