Perrin Coil
Commoner artisan
Perrin Coil
Species
Gnome
Appearance
Perrin Coil is a small, narrow-shouldered gnome with the compact toughness of someone shaped by years beside anvils and furnaces. His skin is warm umber beneath a permanent veil of soot, and his white hair rises in stiff, smoke-frizzed wisps from beneath his leather work cap. Soot-darkened spectacles sit low on his long nose, their lenses scratched into a constellation of tiny arcs. His left hand has been replaced by a carefully jointed iron tool, each finger made from overlapping blackened plates that click softly as they move. The hand can unfold into pincers, a file, a narrow pick, or a delicate three-pronged claw. Perrin moves with startling silence for someone surrounded by metal, leaning close when he listens and making other people unconsciously step aside to give him room. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate fingernails on his living hand, polished every morning despite the grime covering everything else.
“Dry, measured, and unexpectedly gentle. He speaks in short technical observations, pauses to listen for distant mechanical sounds, and becomes almost inaudible when frightened.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
Soot-darkened spectacles with lenses scored by fine scratches
A left hand replaced by a finely articulated iron tool with interchangeable functions
A soft nasal whistle that becomes a high, metallic trill when he is alarmed
A habit of smelling metal before deciding whether it is trustworthy
Tiny glass jars of labeled metal shavings arranged by color, origin, and emotional importance
Voice
“A low, papery voice with a faint nasal whistle beneath every sentence. When rattled, the whistle rises into a thin metallic trill and his words become unnervingly precise.”
Clothing
A charcoal leather apron patched with copper wire, a high-collared brown shirt, soot-stained trousers tucked into reinforced ankle boots, a brass measuring chain around his neck, and a soft work cap pinned with three tiny lock keys
Body Language
Perrin keeps his iron hand folded against his chest when meeting strangers, as though restraining it from reaching for every buckle and hinge nearby. His living hand constantly rubs the rim of one spectacle lens. When irritated, he stands perfectly still while the mechanical fingers slowly open and close. When grief catches him off guard, his shoulders draw inward and his breathing becomes a faint, rapid whistle through his nose.
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