Short but hulking, Brunarra moves like a coiled hammer. Her beard is braided tightly into practical plaits interwoven with thin iron wire and a single strip of crimson cloth taken from a fallen banner—she keeps it as a vow. Her face is a map of hammer marks and faint, pale burn scars that shine slightly when she smiles. Her hands are calloused, knuckle-browned and ringless; she wears a single iron band around her index finger that fits like a seal. She favors leaving her shoulders bare, revealing a tattooed knotwork of her clan and a crude tally of victories burned into her skin. Unexpectedly, she carries a child's wooden token — a small carved bird — tucked behind her ear on the left side, and it chirks faintly when she laughs. When she walks through crowds she pushes forward with an unhurried, inexorable gait: deliberate, grounding, and somehow comforting until she stops and the room feels like lightning.