A lean human sailor with a wind-burned face, ink-stained fingers, and restless dark eyes that never seem to blink at the same time. He wears a weathered blue coat over plain deck clothes, with a coil of rope at his hip and a spellbook wrapped in oilcloth under one arm. His hair is black, tied back in a knot that is always coming loose, and his grin has the sharp, amused look of someone who already knows where the bodies are hidden.

Cunning, sardonic, and impatient, Fart treats every room like a deck to be taken over. He is charming when useful, cruel when bored, and intensely curious about anything hidden, forbidden, or expensive. He trusts competence more than kindness, and he respects anyone who can survive his scrutiny.

Fart was born on a cramped dockside pier where the tide smelled of tar, fish, and bad decisions. His father patched nets for coin, his mother mended sails, and Fart learned early that the sea rewarded only the quick, the cruel, and the lucky. He proved to be all three. As a boy he stole charts from drunken pilots, learned to read the stars from a half-mad helmsman, and found that numbers, currents, and omens all belonged to the same elegant kind of violence. When a passing mage recognized his gift for memorizing patterns and predicting storms, Fart was taken aboard as a cabin errand boy and trained in magic between shifts hauling rigging and scrubbing blood from the deck. He grew into a wizard with salt in his lungs and murder in his imagination. The crew learned to fear the moment he went quiet and started tracing symbols in the air, because his spells always came with a smile. Fart does not seek power for its own sake, he seeks leverage, the kind that lets a clever man decide who drowns, who lives, and who pays to keep breathing. He still knows every trick of a sailor, every knot, every hidden current, and every lie a captain tells when the horizon turns black. He has sailed under three flags, deserted two of them, and burned one ship rather than let its officers mutiny against him.