Bran looks like a man assembled from years of work rather than born all at once. His hands are broad, darkened by walnut stain and axle grease, with fingertips polished smooth from handling spokes and palms ridged by old calluses. He moves with a rolling, slightly sidewise gait that makes him seem perpetually balanced on the deck of a ship, yet he can pivot with startling speed when a wheel begins to fall. His beard is clipped short except for two deliberate braids tucked behind his jaw, and tiny brass washers are threaded through the ends. He smells strongly of cedar shavings, hot metal, rainwater, and the bitter orange soap he insists neutralizes everything. It does not. His clothes are practical and weathered, but he wears a spotless white shirt beneath them, an unexpectedly fussy touch that he guards from sawdust with almost ceremonial care. People leave Kett Wheelwrights remembering his hands first, then the quiet impression that Bran has already measured every doorway, wagon, and person in the room.