Kethran moves like someone who measures everything twice: precise steps, a habit of tilting his head as though aligning invisible gears. His left forearm is wrapped in soot-dark leather and covered in tiny etched runes that glow faintly when he is excited; a brass clockwork gauntlet nests there, its fingers ticking and flexing independently. His right hand bears a permanent ink-stain crescent from years of jotting designs. He wears a stained linen apron over layered waistcoats of mismatched patterns—a mosaic of municipal permit patches, trade guild stamps and scorch marks. Unexpectedly, his eyes are often framed by a child's knitted scarf tied like a bandana; it's bright teal and clearly out of place among grease and brass, a gift he stubbornly refuses to discard. When he laughs he exposes a single gold tooth that catches lamplight like a tiny reflection of a gear tooth.