Jorlan Greycliff is a thin halfling with narrow shoulders, long clever fingers, and the permanently compressed posture of someone who has spent half a lifetime leaning over ledgers. His skin has the warm brown tone of toasted acorns, though the backs of his hands are pale from years beneath paper and lamplight. He moves in quick, economical bursts, gliding between desks and witnesses like a mouse avoiding a cat. His teeth are stained blue-black from chewing inkroot, a bitter herb he claims keeps him alert. His most unsettling feature is his smile, which is wide, sincere, and usually accompanied by the quiet sound of a quill scratching. Despite his fragile appearance, he can carry a full archive box under each arm. The contradiction most people remember is that his voice is gentle while his stare can make hardened aldermen feel as though they have already confessed.