Pippin Crustwell is a broad, sturdy halfling man whose roundness suggests years of tasting dough rather than idleness. Flour clings permanently to the seams of his sleeves, gathers in the creases beside his nose, and dusts his dark curls like fresh snow. His missing front tooth gives every stern proclamation an accidental grin. He moves with the rolling balance of a baker carrying a full tray, shoulders swaying slightly while his feet remain planted and sure. His hands are thick, scarred, and warm, with fingertips polished smooth by years of kneading. A heavy leather ledger hangs from a chain at his belt. The unexpected contradiction is that his clothes are immaculate beneath the flour, carefully patched and pressed every morning, and his voice becomes more elegant and courtly the angrier he gets.