Fenril stands just over 3 feet tall, with a posture bent slightly forward as if perpetually peering over the rim of his tricorne hat. His weathered face is framed by tufts of silvery-white hair that poke erratically from beneath his hat like stray feathers. His eyes are a sharp, luminous green flecked with gold, twinkling with both mirth and a calculating edge. His movements are quick, yet precise — an odd blend of sprightly agility and deliberate caution, like a cat who’s seen too much and chooses its steps carefully. His long leather coat is patched at the elbows but polished to a dull gloss where his arms swing constantly, giving an impression of age meeting stubborn care. Curiously, despite the old weariness in his face, his smile is wide and irrepressible, often flashing a set of surprisingly sharp teeth. His fingers are stained faintly with ink and coal dust, betraying long hours hunched over case notes or forge-blackened grime from Laelith’s soot-heavy streets.