A small, restless figure who seems permanently dusted with motes of candlewax and old maps. Pippin's coat is patched in odd places with map-fragments, coin-pouches, and scraps of shimmering fabric; his sleeves are always rolled to reveal precise, inked diagrams on his forearms. He walks with quick, birdlike hops and an easy smile, but his left shoulder bears a faint scorch pattern that curls like a fern — the only visible trace of a fire that should have killed him. When still, he fiddles with a loop of tiny bells on his belt that tinkle in a rhythm he alone can hear. Unexpectedly, he smells of wet earth and orange peel at once, like a forest after rain served with tea.