Rosy-cheeked and plump, Beric moves with the efficient waddling gait of someone who knows every inch of his inn. His face is a map of small laugh-lines, a broad nose dusted with freckles, and a quicksilver smile that rarely reaches the very bottom of his eyes. He tends to stand with one hand tucked into his embroidered waistcoat and the other perpetually wiping a brass tankard on a linen towel. When he laughs he throws his head back so the fine silver hair at his temples flashes like a crown; when he listens, he leans forward so far the edges of his waistcoat flare like small sails. Unexpectedly, his left hand is ringless and scarred, with a neat white line across the knuckle—a mark that contradicts the cozy impression he cultivates and hints at a harsher past.