Barnaby is a stout, cheerful looking halfling with a face like a dried apple, full of friendly wrinkles and a perpetual rosy flush. His hands are thick and calloused from years of handling heavy casks, yet they move with a startling, surgical precision when he carves meat or counts coins. While he projects the image of a bumbling, hospitable host, his hazel eyes are uncomfortably sharp, darting around the room to catch every whispered word and subtle gesture. He moves with a silent, rolling gait that allows him to appear at a patron's elbow without making a sound. A peculiar, jagged scar from an old acid burn runs from his left wrist up to his elbow, often hidden by his rolled-up sleeves.