Fizzlethorn looks like he was stitched together from the things he collects: a shock of copper hair perpetually singed at one tip, round spectacles rimmed in tarnished brass, and a jacket whose pockets bulge with scraps of parchment, clock gears, and a always-slightly-glowing moth pinned to the lapel. His face is deeply lined with laugh creases despite an often distracted expression. He moves with quick, small, precise steps and an odd, rhythmic finger-tapping at his temple when thinking — a habit from counting beats learned while bargaining. Unexpectedly, his left hand is always cold and slightly translucent at the fingertips, as if the flesh there is half a memory; he covers it with fingerless gloves when embarrassed. Up close he smells faintly of old paper, citrus peel, and ozone.