Hagred moves like a reed in a gentle current: slow, deliberate, and with a constant small sway in his shoulders that makes him seem always listening. He favors standing half-turned, palm tucked to his chest as if cradling an invisible book. His face is long and weathered with fine, branching laugh-lines etched at the corners of his eyes; his nose is aquiline in a way that marks him as of an old Moonfolk trading line. When he walks through his barroom it is with a theatrical grade of attentiveness—he will suddenly bloom into animation to greet a stranger, then fold back into reserve. Unexpectedly, he always wears one polished iron bracer on his left forearm that looks out of place with his otherwise soft, bookish aesthetic. The bracer is pried open and closed a few times when he is thinking, a nervous motion he hides beneath a napkin or towel. In the presence of adventurers he brightens easily but keeps a protective reserve, as if counting coins and memories at once.