Thaddeus is a compact halfling who somehow occupies the whole conversation, leaning across tables to sketch star charts and nudging aside anyone who blocks his view. His ruddy, weather-roughened face and hands show years spent outdoors taking readings in rain and wind. He wears a well-brushed scholar's coat, a waistcoat crowded with tiny pockets, and a brass-lensed viewing tube on a cord. His expression is usually patient, though his eyes are forever measuring the sky.

Measured, inquisitive, and quietly theatrical. He speaks as if every answer has a footnote, but delights in a well-timed reveal. He is gentle with frightened clients and stubborn with anyone who calls an uncertain future a certainty.

Professor Thaddeus McGee learned the constellations by helping his aunt Sioned keep weather records on a windswept hill above a village. When his predictions proved useful, he began making forecasts for travelers and farmers, then added a card table and a velvet cloth to draw in clients who wanted more than rain warnings. He insists that fortune-telling is a matter of patterns, patience, and asking the right questions, not supernatural certainty. His halfling knack for slipping through a crowded room has often helped him reach the best vantage point before anyone else notices the clouds gathering. He studied at the modestly named Long Hall, an old school whose locals have shortened its name to Hall. There he became a careful researcher, copying star tables and collecting accounts of uncanny coincidences. His divinations sometimes show him brief, startling glimpses of what may happen next. He records each one in a little book, but refuses to call any vision inevitable. Now he travels as a consulting seer, trading useful predictions for lodging, obscure texts, and a chance to check his calculations against the real world.