Tickam is a tiny, energetic bundle of folded robes and polished brass: a small gnome with a face mapped by faint clock-gear scars and laughter lines so deep they look like tiny sprockets. He moves in quick, punctuated hops rather than a smooth walk, as if each step obeys an internal metronome. His robes are layered—silken waistcoat, patched cog-patterned vest, and a weathered overcoat whose lining is printed with faded star charts. Dangling from belts, bandoliers, and pockets are dozens of watches — pocket, wrist, sun-dial necklaces, and a curious glass orb that keeps perfect time but never ticks audibly. Unexpectedly, he smells faintly of coal smoke, like someone who used to work under a forge, and his right hand is ringed with tiny brass bands that tick softly when he speaks. Although diminutive, he carries himself with an old-world dignity and a nervous glee that makes him seem larger than his stature.