Fenna is a grown goblin woman barely three and a half feet tall, with leaf-green skin, long pointed ears, and amber eyes that catch light like polished resin. Her face is lively and open, with a theatrical grin that makes her seem to be sharing a joke even when she is listening carefully. Dark hair is wound into a neat bun and tied with a yellow ribbon. She moves with quick, economical steps, then plants her feet wide when she performs, as if the whole green were a stage. A battered hand puppet is nearly always hooked over her belt; its blue felt cloak is worn shiny at the nose where children keep kissing it. In an unexpected touch for a traveling performer, Fenna keeps a small tin of seed cakes and pauses to feed sparrows before setting up her booth.

Fenna is bold enough to heckle a bully in front of a crowd, yet careful about taking credit for helping anyone. She is generous with laughter and stingy with trust. When relaxed, she makes the world into a stage; when anxious, she becomes practical and counts exits, food, and favors. Anger makes her more direct and more theatrical, not quieter: she gives the offender a role in a story they will not enjoy.

Fenna grew up in a cramped riverside district where her mother mended nets and her father carved toys from driftwood. At nine, she watched a traveling puppeteer turn a quarrel between two market families into laughter; she decided then that a story could redirect a crowd more safely than a blade. Years later, during a flood, Fenna used her first puppet show to keep frightened children on a dry roof while neighbors hauled them to safety. The puppet was a little knight in a blue cloak, its shield marked with a bee, and she has carried it ever since. She now travels from village to village with her folding booth, trading performances for meals, repairs, and news. Her former teacher, old Miska, still sends her scraps of scripts and blunt notes about her timing. Fenna is fond of Jori, a village ferryman who once gave her a place to sleep through a storm, but she keeps moving before affection can become an obligation. Her current trouble is a string of performances canceled by a bailiff who claims the village green belongs to a local landholder. Fenna suspects the real motive is that her newest play makes a miserly reeve look ridiculous.