A compact kenku with charcoal-black feathers, pale silver markings along the throat, and bright copper-brown eyes. Their plumage is meticulously groomed around the head and neck but left slightly ragged at the wings and tail from long hours spent over books and campfires. They wear a patched blue-gray scholar's robe over practical travel clothes, with a spellbook secured beneath one arm and a brass-tipped quarterstaff used more as a walking aid than a weapon. They stand unnervingly still while listening, then move in sudden, precise bursts.

Quiet, observant, and intensely methodical. Kett listens longer than most people expect, cataloguing accents, gestures, and inconsistencies before speaking. They are kind toward earnest students, suspicious of charming experts, and delighted by obscure facts. Their humor is dry and often delivered in an accidentally perfect imitation of someone else.

Kett was raised among a loose roost of kenku archivists who preserved spoken histories by repeating every word they deemed important. While other fledglings learned family routes, market calls, and warnings of approaching hawks, Kett became fascinated by the sounds that did not belong to ordinary life: the measured cadence of a ritual, the hiss of a summoned flame, and the strange resonance of names written in old magical texts. Their talent for exact imitation made them a valued assistant to a reclusive human sage, who taught Kett to read as well as repeat. When the sage's library burned, Kett escaped with a half-charred spellbook and a memory full of unfinished lessons. They have spent the years since reconstructing the lost work, comparing fragments from monasteries, ruined towers, and private collections. Kett now travels as a cautious but determined wizard, hoping to discover whether the fire was an accident or an attempt to erase something dangerous. They record every new fact in a careful hand, then practice saying it aloud in the voice of the person who taught it to them.