Tinkwon moves like a pocket hurricane: quick, precise, and always leaving a faint trail of metallic dust. He is rarely still; his hands are stained with oils and lacquer, and his boots scuff the floor in a rhythmic tap that sounds almost like a small clockwork beating. He favors thick lenses that magnify one eye more than the other (one lens is round, the other is an oval he carved himself). His left forearm is a patchwork of brass plates and leather straps — not a full prosthetic, but a lattice of protective tinker's plates used to steady tools and hide old scars. Unexpectedly, he carries a battered, plush rabbit tucked into his breast pocket; the rabbit's button eyes are actually polished glass lenses pulled from broken goggles. When he smiles, the grin is quick and habitually apologetic, as if he is surprised anyone would accept it.