Senn Vok is a narrow, stooped half-elf with the dry, corded frame of someone who has spent fifty years leaning over ledgers and cargo manifests. His left eye is gone, the socket covered by a square of dark blue cloth tied behind his head, while his right eye remains sharp and brown, bright as wet chestnut beneath a shelf of white brows. His jaw works slightly when he thinks, revealing a row of small, square teeth worn flat from chewing bitterroot. His hands are the first thing most people notice: knuckled, ink-stained, and thickened at the fingertips, with nails polished smooth from years of turning paper. He moves with a careful, shuffling patience until a document is threatened, then crosses a room with startling speed, cane tapping like a metronome. He smells of lamp oil, old wool, salt, and fennel tea. For all his weathered severity, he laughs easily at bad jokes, throwing his head back and showing the missing tooth near the back of his jaw.