Bromli moves like a man who has lived half his life leaning over an anvil and the other half in council chambers: slow, deliberate strides that end in sudden, precise pivots. His beard is braided into three thick ropes wrapped with copper wire and scavenged clockwork gears; soot streaks the grooves of his forehead and hands like ritual paint. Scars lace his forearms—pale, raised lines from past splinters of enchanted iron. He keeps one gauntlet perpetually warm with an inner coil that hisses faintly when he speaks. Contradictorily, despite the permanence of his soot and the bulk of his arms, Bromli's hands are neatly kept and soft at the fingertips: he polishes his hammerhead daily and treats his tools with the reverence others give to holy texts.