Tobin stands three feet two inches tall with the narrow, coiled energy of someone always ready to dart. His long black hair falls in a single, neat fall down his back, interrupted by a stark white streak that starts above his left temple and cuts through the black like a scar of moonlight. He wears close-fitted black leather armor scarred and polished in places, his forearms wrapped in off-white bandages that bear old bloodstains and recent smears. A pair of feather-shaped karambits hang in each hand; the right blade is rimmed in steady, low flame that does not burn his grip. A ragged scar runs across his face over the right eye, twitching skin and slightly milky eye-pupil beneath; across his collarbone a crude crescent of healed gaps and puckered flesh tells of a great doglike bite. He moves with a dancer's stealth—light, quick, and abrupt—yet when he stands still there's a slow, watchful calculation to his posture that feels almost predatory. Unexpectedly, his smile is warm and boyish, and he hums an old lullaby to himself when mending wounds, betraying a softness behind the hunter's predatory edge.