A gaunt human man with the restless posture of someone who has spent too many years leaning over maps and too few sleeping soundly. His robes are a patchwork of ink-stained charcoal wool and sun-faded indigo silk, carefully mended but never fully clean. One sleeve is newer than the other, as if replacing the old fabric was less important than preserving the scent of smoke and cedar trapped in the original. He wears brass-framed spectacles with one cracked lens, yet he refuses to replace it because he claims the distortion helps him see lies at the edge of vision. His left hand is always ink-black to the wrist, though no amount of washing seems to remove it. Unexpectedly, his spellbook is bound in bright coral leather with tiny silver bells sewn into the spine, a cheerful, almost childish object that clashes with his grave expression. He moves with measured, sideways steps like a man trying not to disturb invisible dust, but when excited he becomes quick and almost birdlike.