Rill is a compact Cinderclaw with ash-grey scales that turn charcoal-dark along his shoulders and tail. Brine has bleached the short spines running from his crown to the base of his neck, leaving them pale as old bone. His hands are narrow and dexterous, with dark keratin claws kept meticulously filed for handling fine wire. He moves with the wary balance of someone accustomed to swaying platforms, placing each foot as if the ground might shift beneath it. His eyes rarely settle on faces. They travel instead over knots, hinges, boots, buckles, ceilings, and the nearest possible anchor point. The unexpected thing about him is his immaculate scent. Beneath the usual smoke and machine grease, he smells faintly of crushed fennel and clean salt, because he oils his scales every morning with a private blend.