Wiry and small but somehow centered, Krik moves like someone used to turning slowly on a spit while managing a dozen dancing flames. His skin is splotched with pale singe marks arranged in almost deliberate patterns. His left ear is threaded with three tiny iron rings each stamped with a different grain pattern. He wears a blackened leather apron patched with thrifted bells and a sash stained in concentric rings of grease and spice. Unexpectedly, tucked into a pocket on his hip is a pristine white cloth, folded with near-reverence and smelling faintly of citrus.