Pipin Thorne stands at a mere three feet but carries himself with the predatory grace of a panther. His skin is a deep, sun-baked tan, often obscured by streaks of grey river-mud and crushed lime leaves. His hair is a wild, tangled thicket of mahogany curls tied back with a length of dried gut. Most striking are his eyes; the left is a sharp, piercing amber, while the right is a milky white orb from a narrow escape with a cockatrice, yet he tracks movement with it as if it still functioned. He moves with a silent, jarring efficiency, his body always slightly coiled as if ready to spring.