Portly and upright, Fennrik moves like a ledger come to life: deliberate, measured, and always aware of where he can place a stamp. His cheeks are perpetually flushed from long hours bent over ink and accounts. He favors layered waistcoats with hidden pockets stitched inside the lining, each pocket containing slips of paper, a stub quill, or a tiny sealing-wax tube. His fingers are dark with ink stains that never fully wash out; when he gesticulates he leaves faint dots on ledgers, doorframes, and occasionally guests' sleeves. Unexpectedly, he wears a narrow monocle of dull brass that magnifies not text but the faintest glimmer of coin—an odd, almost superstitious affectation that causes him to tilt his head in awkward, charming ways. Though small in stature, his presence fills a room the way a crowded ledger fills a page: dense, important, and a little forbidding.