Greenbeak is a compact, stooped figure who moves like a root finding soil: slow, deliberate, and reassuringly inevitable. He wears a perpetual dusting of potting earth in the creases of his wrists and under his nails; his skin is leathery where sun and damp have rubbed against him, but his hands are soft where he tends living things. His straggly hair falls in wisps, pieced with silvery threads and occasional bits of dried seed pods. His beard is kept in a short, uneven tuft that smells faintly of mint. He favors a patched, moss-green jacket whose elbows are reinforced with braided willow; under it he wears a shirt stitched with tiny floral runes. When he bends to tend a plant he seems to shrink further into himself; when he stands to speak he brightens like a sprout breaking surface. Unexpectedly, he has a single ornamental brass monocle dangling on a leather cord — purely decorative, never used for sight, but polished lovingly each morning.