Short, squat, and compact like a mountain root. Bromli moves with the careful economy of a man who has learned to conserve energy and aim every step. His braided beard is streaked with gray and silver, each braid bound with tiny iron rings engraved in the ancient runic style of his clan. A long, single braid of hair tied at the nape swings when he walks; on it hangs a faded scrap of a sailors' pennant — an unexpected bit of sea-weathered cloth on a mountain dwarf. His skin is scorched at one cheek from an old flaming arrow; the scar puckers and pulls when he smiles, making his kind expression seem lopsided and world-weary. He favors an old battered iron breastplate over chain, its surface full of dents, each rimmed with hammered gold inlay where Bromli traced the name of a comrade slain. He keeps one gauntlet polished to a mirror sheen, the other left matte and scarred. He moves with the slow, deliberate shuffle of the experienced, and when anger peeks out his gait becomes a quick, thudding stomp that makes the ground feel more real.