A diminutive human man in his early sixties, Zephyrus seems at first like an underfed clerk who might be blown over by a strong harbor wind. His long gray hair is divided into dozens of narrow braids, each braid tied at the end with copper wire that clicks softly when he turns his head. Square crystal monocles are strapped tightly over his brow rather than resting on his nose, giving his face the startled look of a patient insect. His fingers are permanently stained dark walnut from decades of handling treated ledgers, though the ink has seeped into the whorls of his skin so deeply that even his fingernails look annotated. He moves with tiny, exact steps, never brushing a shelf or disturbing a hanging thread, but when frightened he becomes startlingly fast, skittering sideways with the precision of a chess piece. His clothes hang loosely from his narrow frame and smell faintly of dust, lamp oil, and brine. The contradictory impression he leaves is that of a harmless, grandmotherly librarian trapped inside the body language of a very dangerous surveyor.