Compact and bustling like a living hearth. Rollo moves with a slight forward tilt as if always headed toward the door to greet someone. His face is a map of laughter lines and a single long, pale scar along his left cheek where he once broke up a fight. His fingers are perpetually sticky with syrup and spirits, and his apron bears a scatter of embroidered route-mark symbols. Unexpected element: he keeps a tiny, spotless brass compass tied to his ear, which he fiddles with during long conversations.