Rell is a compact, springy halfling with quick hands and an even quicker grin. His face is lined by tiny, concentric laugh-lines around the eyes and mouth, as if the same joke has been told and retold on his lips. He moves with the practiced efficiency of someone who bridges two worlds: the warm, unhurried cadence of a market vendor and the sudden, silent precision of a fence who can open a lock or hide a contraband trinket without drawing attention. He favors utility over show, but there's a careful neatness to how everything in his shop—shelves, pots, and piles of straw—is arranged by weight and use rather than color. Unexpectedly, he wears a pair of battered leather gauntlets patched in places with soft, rune-stitched cloth: they smell faintly of cedar and beeswax and are constantly creased from habitually flexing his fingers as if feeling for the grain in wood. Though he detests blades in principle (see background), he keeps a long, blunt-ended walking staff slotted behind the counter—worn smooth at the top from hands and embossed with tiny iron nails hammered into it in an asymmetric pattern that he says 'keeps stubborn boards honest.'