Thrane is a broad, elderly dwarf whose presence feels less like a person entering a room and more like a furnace being opened. His beard is white at the roots but smoke-gray toward the tips, braided into four heavy ropes secured by platinum rings engraved with the names of dead apprentices. Fine stone dust clings to his eyebrows, eyelashes, and the creases around his mouth, even when he has just changed clothes. His hands are enormous and scarred, with blackened nails and fingertips polished smooth by decades of chiseling. He moves with deliberate, weighty economy, yet his eyes dart constantly toward exits, load-bearing pillars, and unattended tools. The unexpected contradiction is his clothing: beneath his immaculate silver-threaded coat, he wears a patched child's apron from his first failed apprenticeship.