Short and broad-shouldered, Torbin moves like a rolling anvil: deliberate, inexorable, and somehow graceful when bent over a workbench. His beard is long but clipped into professional loops so it won't snag; soot streaks its gray-brown braids in irregular lines, and flecks of gold leaf cling like stubborn confetti. His hands are pitted with tiny burn scars and faint rune-tattoos at the knuckles. He favors a half-apron of patchworked leather hung with tiny zipped pockets and magnetic clips; a belt over it bristles with uncommon, almost whimsical tools — an iron quill, a spring-loaded caliper, a glass vial of humming motes, and a small clockwork bird that rests on his shoulder and ticks softly. Unexpectedly, Torbin's left eye is a glass optic with a faint, ever-shifting filigree of silver inside that tracks heat and vibration; when he smiles he exposes a gap-tooth grin that contradicts his otherwise severe presence.