Tobin moves like a story being told—quick, expressive, and full of small, precise gestures. He is short even for a halfling but carries himself with a wide-chested confidence. His skin is freckled and the knuckles of his right hand are perpetually ink-stained from writing notes and copying tunes. He braids three tiny beads into the tail of his very thin mustache: a polished bone bead, a sliver of blue glass, and a flattened coin — each from a different town that saved him once. He wears a battered travel-worn cloak with a patch over the left shoulder shaped like a lute; beneath, his clothes are surprisingly neat and pressed. Contradiction: despite his tidy clothes, his left shoe is always one size too small — a habit he keeps because it helps him wake early and feel the road underfoot.