Gideon moves with the careful, precise gait of someone who measures twice and cuts once. His right forearm is a brass-laced prosthetic studded with small screw heads and a tiny glass vial that glows faintly when he thinks. He keeps oil and soot along the cuffs of his shirt but always wipes his fingers on a clean linen that he folds into his apron. His left sleeve is patched in a dozen fabrics from different cities, a quiet record of places he has worked. Unexpectedly, his fingers are stained with faded blue ink in a neat ring around the index finger a mark of his years as a scribe before he apprenticed as an artificer. The overall impression is of a man who is both a capable mechanic and a careful artisan, equal parts soot and scholar.