Hobb moves like a coiled spring. He is small and wiry with sinewy limbs that ripple under his patched leather jerkin. His face is a map of tiny scars from thorns and rope burns. Hobb keeps a sprig of honeydew moss braided into his left ear as a mark of office. His boots are soft-soled and always dusted in pale yellow pollen. Unexpectedly, he favors a faded waistcoat embroidered with a flamboyant pattern of summer bees, a splash of brightness against his practical gear.