Pavin is a wire-thin child with a sharp, angular face and skin the color of sun-baked silt. His wheat-colored hair is a chaotic nest of split ends tucked beneath a grease-stained flat cap. He moves with a rhythmic, shuffling gait that suggests he is constantly trying to minimize the noise of his oversized leather boots. His hands are his most striking feature: they are startlingly clean and steady, contrasting sharply with the dust and grime that cakes his elbows and knees. He carries a constant scent of dry parchment and bitter licorice root, leaving a lingering impression of a miniature, overworked bureaucrat rather than a common street urchin.