Firnel stands short even for a gnome, his posture slightly curved as if forever leaning toward a whisper. His clothes are trimmed with moss-colored thread and bark-patched elbows; the fabric smells faintly of loam and lavender. He wears spectacles with thin brass rims—one lens clouded with a permanent smear that never quite cleans—perched on a nose freckled like a star-map. A faded leather satchel hangs at his hip, bellflowers and a tiny brass compass pinned to the flap. When he moves he is careful and deliberate, each step measured as if the ground answers him; yet his hands flick with sudden, precise quickness when examining a plant or adjusting a rune. Unexpectedly, his left forearm bears a line of tiny metal plates, an old gnomish tinker's repair that glints like fish scales—practical, incongruous, and oddly elegant.