Tobin moves like a small gust of wind through underbrush: quick, light-footed, and producing an impression of things gently disturbed rather than broken. He is usually perched half-sitting on tree roots or leaning on a crooked staff that looks grown rather than carved. His clothes are patched but meticulously mended with moss-dyed thread; bird droppings and sap on his sleeves are cleaned and re-cleaned until they leave pale, intentional flecks. Unexpectedly, his left hand is stained a deep indigo — from years of crushing a particular berry used in his inks — and he uses no gloves, so his fingers bear blue fingerprints at nearly all times. When he walks into a room he smells faintly of crushed pine needles and recent rain.