Orsik Pell is a wiry, weather-hardened dwarf whose narrow frame seems built from cable, knotted roots, and stubbornness rather than bulk. His hands are the first thing people notice: fingertips darkened by old iron dust, nails polished smooth from years of scraping through cracks, and palms ridged with pale calluses that form almost geological layers. He walks with a slight forward lean, placing each foot as if the ground has personally offended him. One polished black boot gleams like a ceremonial relic, while the other is permanently crusted with gray-brown tunnel mud. He insists the difference tells him which direction he entered a passage from. His beard is braided into four short cords, each threaded with a different bit of salvage: a copper washer, a blue bottle bead, a broken key tooth, and a tiny brass bell that never rings. His clothing is practical but oddly asymmetrical, with one sleeve carefully patched in neat squares and the other hanging loose at the cuff. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate left glove, kept in a velvet-lined tin and worn only when handling objects he considers beautiful. He leaves behind the impression of a nervous clockwork bird that has somehow learned masonry.