A lean human man with salt-burned skin, restless eyes, and black hair tied back with fraying cord. He wears a weathered sailor's coat over a wizard's travel robes, with ink stains on his fingers and a permanently suspicious stare. A brass compass hangs at his throat beside a pouch of chalk, shells, and tiny bone charms, and he carries himself like a man who expects betrayal from both the deck and the stars.

Sharp-tongued, patient when it benefits him, and delightfully cruel when no one important is watching. He enjoys solving problems with cold logic, then sprinkling just enough theatricality on top to make others underestimate how dangerous he is. He is not rash, but he is deeply unkind, and he believes mercy is usually just a poor investment.

Fart was born in a cramped harbor town where the tide decided who ate and who went hungry. As a child, he worked rope lines, scrubbed decks, and learned quickly that sailors were easier to manipulate than merchants if you knew a few useful lies. He showed an unnatural gift for numbers, symbols, and storm signs, the sort of mind that could memorize a navigator's chart after one glance and then twist it into something profitable. When a passing hedge mage recognized his talent, Fart stole the old man's spellbook before dawn and set sail before the theft was discovered. The sea taught him that power belongs to whoever is willing to take it. He studied the stolen grimoire in hidden corners of cargo holds, under tarps, and by lantern light while the crew drank themselves stupid. Each spell became another tool for control, another way to turn fear into obedience. He has no interest in noble causes, only leverage, survival, and the delicious look on a victim's face when they realize he has outplanned them. He still knows how to reef a sail, read a squall, and survive a boarding action, but now he uses that knowledge to guide his ambitions, not to serve a captain.