Short even for a halfling, Twizzle moves with a quick, furtive grace more like a city mouse than a country child. His hands are perpetually stained the color of loam; fine scars thread the pads of his fingers where briars have caught him. His clothes are a quilt of patched linens and pressed leaves: a moss-green smock dotted with embroidered seed patterns, a waistcoat whose lining was once sky-blue, and trousers tucked into damp, curling leather boots that are softer than they look. A copper ring of unknown origin hangs from a cord at his throat, dented and polished by habit. His gait is slightly asymmetric—he favors the right foot after a long-ago cramped confinement—and when he walks he tends to brush his fingertips along walls and railings as if checking for soil. Unexpectedly, he keeps one pristine white glove tucked into his pocket and wears it only when writing in his small plant notes, as if that untouched glove is a tiny shrine to cleanliness amid his muddied life.