Rilquix stands a little over 3 feet tall but moves with the rapid purpose of someone twice his size. His skin is a warm, copper-rose, freckled in a manner that looks almost like spattered varnish. He wears a patchwork apron of soot-dark leather, brass plates, and stitched diagrams; its pockets overflow with springs, glass vials, and bent clock hands. His beard is a tight, deliberate tangle of copper wire braided with thin chains and tiny chimes that tinkle whenever he laughs; one braided strand ends in a small mechanical eye that whirs and blinks independently. His hands are ink-stained and grease-scarred, articulated with a set of ringed gauntlets studded with tiny tools — one glove permanently holds an oiled quill. He favors a monocle with interchangable lenses that flips out into a measuring arm. He tilts forward when curious, as though he weighs questions on his knees. Unexpectedly, Rilquix carries a well-loved, patched velvet handkerchief tucked where a gnomish lord might keep a crest — he dabs it at the corner of his mouth after tasting new oils or when unnerved, a strangely delicate habit from a part of his life few know about.