Rizzik looks at first like a refined antiquarian: a small, well-groomed gnome with a habit of tilting his head as if inspecting an object for value. His skin is lightly dusted with the faint gray of soot from the bazaar's lamps and the years of handling goods; his clothing is always neat but layered with hidden pockets and patches that smell faintly of oil and jasmine. He moves with the quick, economical steps of someone who has slipped through narrow alleys his whole life, and his hands are callused but precise. Unexpectedly, his right cheek bears a long, narrow scar that cuts through a laugh line — a mark earned in a close-quarters knife fight — and he keeps a child's ribbon tied to one braided tuft of hair at the back of his neck, a soft contradicting detail on an otherwise pragmatic person.