Short and squat with the bowl-cut of a stonemason and the posture of a man used to weighing boulders with his knees. His beard is braided into tight rope-braids that smell faintly of iron and beef drippings. He moves with surprising spring in his knees, a quick, smashing gait that looks like someone who has learned to lift mountains and to set them gently all in the same motion. His right forearm bears a long white scar that splits an old tattoo of his clan's sigil. Slivers of stone dust sit in the creases of his skin as if he never quite washed it out. Contradictory to his rock-honed bulk, he keeps a tiny pewter spoon tied inside his belt, polished to a shine and always warm to the touch.