Jhalossan is squat and solid as a millstone, moving with the deliberate, efficient shuffle of someone who spends their days in narrow tunnels and behind cistern lids. His skin is smudged with pale mineral dust and old grease stains; his beard is tightly braided into three functional plaits, each looped with a tiny copper ring stained green from water. He wears a thick leather apron patched in places with pieces of old bronze armor. His hands are broad and nicked, the nails keeled and trimmed short, and his fingernails are perpetually ringed with a faint patina of verdigris. Unexpectedly, his left eye has a small, crescent-shaped scar milky with healed tissue while his right eyebrow sprouts a single white whisker that he plucks ceremonially before important jobs. He smells faintly of beer and pine sap. When he walks he leans very slightly forward as if bracing against invisible pressure, and he often places a palm over the belly of his apron where his tools hang.