A lean human man with salt-burned skin, restless dark eyes, and a chronic half-smile that never reaches his face. His black hair is tied back with ship cord, his hands are ink-stained and scarred, and he carries himself like a man listening for distant thunder. He dresses in patched sailor's clothes under a battered scholar's robe, with a small spellbook chained to his belt and a look of delighted suspicion toward everyone around him.

Cunning, sardonic, and unnervingly calm in a crisis, Fart prefers to watch people reveal their weaknesses before deciding how to use them. He enjoys cleverness more than cruelty, but has no moral objection to either. He can be charming when it benefits him, though his charm always feels like a knife hidden in a bouquet.

Fart was born on a leaky merchant cog and raised on the rhythm of rope, rain, and shouted orders. He learned early that the sea rewards patience, punishes weakness, and remembers every slight. While other deckhands learned knots and cannon drill, he spent his nights stealing scraps of alchemical notes from a ship's chaplain and copying strange symbols in the margins of cargo ledgers. The first time he made a lantern flame twist into a serpent shape, he decided the world was either a joke or a tool, and either way he intended to use it. A hard winter voyage stranded his ship near a ruined lighthouse where he found a drowned wizard's journal sealed in tar. The journal did not merely teach him magic, it taught him control, and control to Fart meant leverage. He left the sea at the first chance, carrying the spellbook like a stolen flag, and now he roams port to port with the manners of a dock rat and the appetite of a privateer. He smiles easily, cheats casually, and treats every secret as a coin waiting to be spent. If he ever seems loyal, it is only because he has not yet found a better offer.