Bramen moves like someone used to the rhythm of seasons: slow, deliberate steps that suddenly snap into urgent motion when needed. He wears a permanently sun-creased scowl that softens into a sly, crooked smile when he remembers a private joke. His hands are webbed with calluses and faint burn scars from mending barrels and curing hides. On his right forearm is a faded, crude tattoo of a sheaf of wheat encircled by a broken sword — he traces it when thinking. Unexpectedly, he keeps one of his old work gloves pinned to his belt like a talisman, though it is stuffed with dried lavender and a scrap of child's ribbon.