Nimvell stands shorter than most people's knees but moves with the economy of a veteran general. His coat is a patched field-sash of forest greens and soot-gray, the cloth embroidered with dozens of tiny sigils denoting campaigns and commendations; one sleeve is repaired with bright copper mesh that glitters when he gestures. He wears a mechanical monocle over his left eye that magnifies and annotates — brass gears tick under its rim — while his natural right eye is a weathered moss-brown, ringed with faint silver. His hair is a tumble of iron-gray curls cropped close at the nape and rebelliously long at the temples, giving him an unexpectedly rakish silhouette. His movement is precise and measured, like someone stepping through a map in his head; when he's thinking he taps an invisible grid with the pad of his thumb. Contradiction: he smells faintly of ink and lemon balm and yet his boots are always flecked with fresh mud from wherever he last sent an expedition.